Notes and Observations by Frodo of the Shire
by Lurea
Summary: In Minas Tirith, Frodo grapples with the horrific events of the War of the Ring. The Companions try to help, but can there be healing for him in Middle-earth?
1. A Blue Book

**Notes and Observations by Frodo of the Shire**

_"In those days the Companions of the Ring dwelt together in a fair house with Gandalf, and they went to and fro as they wished." -The Return of the King_

Rated R for violence

The characters belong not to me, but to J.R.R. Tolkien, praise him with great praise!

In Minas Tirith, Frodo grapples with the horrific events of the War of the Ring. The Companions try to help, but can there be healing for him in Middle-earth?

This story is something of a gap-filler, both in Minas Tirith and in adding Frodo POV at certain quest points.

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers: Naiade, Notabluemaia, and my very dear Nilramiel.   
  
**Chapter 1: A Blue Book**  
  
_"I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad..." -Bilbo, The Fellowship of the Ring_

_  
_  
The Gondorian soldier looked apprehensive as he opened the door of the house. Frodo could see no initial reason for the soldier's tension. The white stone of the exterior gleamed in the morning sunlight, and Gimli caressed the doorjamb appreciatively. His name was Brethir, Frodo remembered, as the soldier stepped inside and turned with an uncertain flourish.  
  
"It is close to the palace and in decent repair, my lords, and will be cleaned as your belongings are brought." Dirt and debris littered the floor, obscuring the intricate design of the tiles. The four Hobbits, Dwarf, Wizard and the Elf-prince milled around, leaving footsteps in the dust. Pippin sneezed and the Gondorian flushed. He began speaking rapidly, in what was evidently a prepared address.  
  
"There are four rooms on the ground floor and two upstairs. The Steward expresses his regret that nothing larger was available. With the army's return, work will be speeded on the City's repairs, and the King's Companions need spend only a night or two in these undesirable quarters. In the meantime, you are to treat this house as your own, and use any of the furnishings you fancy—"  
  
Brethir paused, taking in the echoing emptiness of the rooms, and plunged on bravely. "Or any additional items you require will be made available." He stopped, looking relieved.  
  
Gandalf walked to the stairway that curved along on the far side of the room, and looked upward. "Tell the Steward these quarters will be fine. You may put my things in the westward facing room upstairs. I will be here and there and do not wish to disturb the others." He began climbing the steps as he spoke and soon passed out of sight. The others looked around curiously.  
  
The door from the street opened onto a small hallway, flanked by a pair of formal rooms. Despite the disorder, Frodo could easily imagine them, as they must have once been, with spotless furniture and artwork carefully displayed. Not cozy or cluttered, for what he'd seen of the White City did not lend itself to such hominess, but fine and fair, cool and elegant.  
  
"Only four rooms?" Merry asked. "It looks larger."  
  
Brethir moved to the double-arched doorway in the rear of the hall. The hobbits followed, and saw a central courtyard surrounded on all sides by a vaulted cloister. The overgrown garden nearly obscured the stone pathways of the courtyard, and the small reflecting pool was dry.  
  
"The roof of the main reception hall-" Brethir pointed straight ahead, "is damaged, but the kitchen to the left, and the dining hall are usable, as are two of the bedrooms upstairs."  
  
Merry walked through the cloister into the long, empty room to their right, and nodded. "This'll do nicely, I think," he said.  
  
The guardsman choked down an objection. If the Rohirrim halfling claimed this room, where would the others sleep? "Very well, and your choice, sir?" he asked Frodo. He had seen the honor the King paid this halfling.  
  
Frodo thought that the man was asking where their meager belongings should go. He waved one hand vaguely. "Anywhere, it makes no difference to me."  
  
Brethir looked surprised, and turned to Legolas. Yes, the Elf-prince was next in precedence. "Prince Legolas?"  
  
Legolas shrugged lightly, his grey eyes merry. "It matters not where my cot lies. The joy of my companions' company is still too new for it to weary me."  
  
The soldier gaped at him in confusion before turning to Gimli. "Master Dwarf?"  
  
Gimli stroked his beard as he considered. "Place my cot by this window, Gondorian. That should be far enough from Master Pippin. I have no wish to listen to foolish babble all the night long when sensible folk should sleep."  
  
"All of you in this room?" the guardsman blurted. He immediately turned beet red. "I mean, only with such high and puissant gentle-folk we are accustomed to make better provision—" He was further discomfited when the Company, excluding only Legolas, roared with mirth at these words.  
  
"Young human," Gimli sputtered, "sleeping indoors marks luxury to old soldiers."  
  
"Not to mention on a mattress instead of cold ground," Sam muttered.  
  
The guardsman made no further demurral, and ushered them out to begin the work.  
  
The hobbits watched for a while as men unloaded cots, packs, chairs and other necessaries from a heavily laden wagon and carried them into the house. Pippin sidled over to a carved chair sitting in the street and curiously fingered the gilt on the back. Bright flakes floated to the ground.  
  
"Pippin!" Merry hissed and pulled him away. "Time for lunch. Let's go over to the barracks mess-hall."  
  
Frodo did not reply, absorbed in the carving on the lintel.  
  
"What is it, Frodo?" Merry asked.  
  
"The family name, I believe. I wonder why this house is empty."  
  
Merry shrugged. "Perhaps they fled."  
  
Frodo looked thoughtful. "Perhaps." He trailed behind the others and said nothing more.  
  
The next day, Frodo decided to indulge his curiosity about the carved runes. He questioned Pippin about the City of the Dead, and made his way there, prowling around with Sam in his wake, protesting.  
  
"Couldn't you just ask someone, sir?" Sam said again.  
  
"What would be the fun of that, Sam?" Frodo answered absently. He matched the carving on the mausoleum against his memory of the house runes. It was very similar—if this broken bit were filled in—yes, this must be it.  
  
He stepped inside, hearing Sam's muffled "Mr. Frodo!" Openings under the roofline illuminated the tomb with shafts of daylight. Sam shuffled within, reluctance showing in every line of his body. An effigy rested atop a central dais quietly, nobility evident even in the timeworn features. The walls around were incised with his descendants' names.  
  
Many names, some so old their carving had been obliterated. Long discolored streaks marked the walls under the roofline openings, marking the slow drip of rain over the years. More recent inscriptions were sharper, but fewer in number. Frodo walked the walls, tracing the Gondorian script carefully. The last name had a broken spear carved eloquently above it, and only blank stone after. _Beloved son_, the runes read.  
  
"Brrr!" Sam said. "What a creepy place!"  
  
"Do you think so, Sam? Rather sad, I thought." Little more than a score of years separated the dates under that last name.  
  
"Can you read any of that?" Sam asked.  
  
"A little," Frodo answered. "I don't think this family fled, Sam." He moved back to the names before, that of a man and woman. The wife's death coincided with the son's birth date. The dates under the man's name spanned sixty-five years, and the second date fell only three years after the death of the young scion. Frodo touched the cold stone gently. _Last of the line_.  
  
He looked around the interior, seeing it with new eyes. It was grand indeed, with columns, statuary, and bowls for offerings.  
  
"What do you mean?" Sam asked.  
  
"The line failed." He touched one of the bowls, covered in dust and grime. No sons to pour wine, and no daughters to lay flowers. Sam looked at him in concern, and he shook off the melancholy that enveloped him. "My curiosity is satisfied, Sam. Shall we return?"  
  
Despite his words to Sam, he was drawn to further explore the house when he next had time to himself. The lower floor and Gandalf's room had been cleaned and furnished for the use of the Companions. The other upstairs rooms still contained possessions of the previous occupants.  
  
Faded tapestries, and carved wooden chests, their fine workmanship still apparent. A magnificent bed bereft now of curtains and bedclothes dominated one room. A broken chair tipped forlornly on its side. All signs of the great family that had once inhabited this place.  
  
In one room, shoved against a wall, he found a desk of marvelous workmanship, crafted with cunning drawers and compartments. Every possible item had a place; each space was labeled with the appropriate runes carved into the wood. He was overcome with admiration for its beauty, opening the compartment doors and peeking into the drawers, despite a faint feeling of trespass.  
  
Would the tall Man who had sat here transcribing or translating care to have a stranger's eyes on his treasure? This desk had been important to someone who valued the written word and the page as highly as gold.  
  
One open compartment held a few ragged quills in a space meant for three times as many. A drawer held brittle fragments of parchment. _These shreds are all that exists of whatever that Man once prized so. Poetry? Chronicles? Perhaps nothing more than letters and missives, but still dear to the one who created them._  
  
He was turning away when a gleam of silver in a lower compartment caught his eye. He rested his elbows on the wide writing surface, and saw a rectangular shape tucked far in the back. He pulled it out, realizing as he did that it was a book. It was half the size of Bilbo's Red Book, making it a very small journal for a man. The cover was of blue leather, embossed with the Tree of Gondor. Silver picked out a simplified version on the book's spine.  
  
He hesitated for a moment weighing the book in his hand, in keen curiosity and anticipation. _Books are valuable, and if this is some long lost record, overlooked these many years, then it properly belongs in the Hall of Records_. The feeling of trespass had faded, as if his respectful behavior had convinced the sorrowing spirits of the house that he meant no harm.  
  
He opened the cover, and suppressed disappointment. The first page was completely blank. Then he looked at it closer. Not the first page, after all. Down the book's center ran the jagged edges of torn-out pages. He flipped rapidly through the pages that remained but all were blank.  
  
He went back to the torn out pages, feeling the edges, before carefully separating them. _Perhaps some writing remained on the stubs_? But the obliterator had been too careful; not even a stray inkblot remained.  
  
He turned the book over in his hands. Why did someone remove these pages? There were no answers offered in the house's silence, so he set the book down and commenced a careful search of the desk. He found inkpots with dried ink, and a stub of sealing wax; a broken scraper and an empty seal drawer, neatly reinforced with iron and a lock, to protect those tokens of honor and duty. He found nothing that resembled torn book pages. A puzzle.  
  
The desk was the room's sole furnishing, and the floor was uncovered wood, its rich varnish now scratched and marred. Rubbish littered the grate of the fireplace. He took one step toward the door that led to the other rooms and stopped. _If one rips out the pages of a book, one might conceivably wish to destroy those pages. And the quickest method by far would be...the fire, which is right to hand_.  
  
Hardly daring to breathe, he went and crouched down on the hearth. What he had taken for rubbish was more of the desk's supplies. He identified charred quills, wiping rags, and a sand tray, and in the center a great sheaf of parchment, curled and completely blackened. He reached tentatively for the parchment, hoping some unburned portions remained buried within the stack. But at his first touch, they crumbled, falling into unrecoverable grey and black fragments. _Too late. Too late_.  
  
He sat back on his heels, wondering if anything else was salvageable. The sand tray was decorated with an interlocking leaf pattern. _Was that a mallorn leaf_? He lifted a corner to examine it, and started when he saw pages underneath, buried in the sand that had spilled from the tray. Pages with a torn edge. He looked from the pages to the book in his hands, and then cautiously raised them from their long rest.  
  
The pages were partially burned and grimy, but the sand had doused them before they could burn completely. The hand of he who wrote them was large and fair and Frodo could easily make out their sense: names.  
  
Names covered the pages, with lines connecting them in groups.  
  
Liamal—Daneril—Orhieon—Gobelir  
  
Cimbacil—Huriador  
  
Temoth—Beramon—Calor—Toriseth  
  
A long and glorious lineage. He recognized some of the names from his visit to the mausoleum. He fingered the pages, remembering. The last child of this lineage had not been the last to die. And so that son's father, the last of a line stretching perhaps to fabled Numenor, sat in this room and destroyed his carefully written pedigree, burning it and the rest of his writings.  
  
_But why not burn the book as well_? He turned it in his hands, looking from it to the desk. _One to whom the word and the page were more precious than gold_. Who could not bear to burn a book, not when there was yet some chance of use being made of it. Perhaps he had hoped to return someday and inscribe some other, fairer resolution.  
  
But the design went amiss, for the book was small enough to the doughty Men of Gondor as to be nearly unnoticeable. It had lain forgotten until now. Frodo hefted the book thoughtfully, his face solemn as he considered. _Unused long, but not forever. Books are meant to be filled with words_.  
  
He paused at the doorway, and then bowed to the magnificent desk. The action did not feel as absurd as he had expected it would. _Notes. Won't Bilbo be surprised_? The last thought brought a smile to his face as he left the room.  
  
One of the chests the soldiers had brought had contained a box of writing materials, most likely intended for Gandalf's use. Frodo did not think Gandalf would begrudge him their use. Perched on one of the windowsills of the former dining hall, now filled with the Companions' belongings, he took up a quill. The sill was wide and low enough to be a hobbit window seat, though hobbits had been long forgotten when this house was built. He opened the blue-leather book and wrote on the first page:  
  
**Personal Notes and Observations  
  
By Frodo Baggins of the Shire  
**  
Intended as an addendum and supplement to the Red Book memoir of Bilbo  
Baggins.  
  
Then he turned that page over and began at the top of the next:  
  
**6 May 1419  
**  
The White City of Minas Tirith rejoices in the return of its long-  
fabled King. The King's Companions (including myself) have been given  
much praise and honor. Several popular songs have taken the city's  
fancy, including one entitled: "The Halfling Prince."  
  
In it, the Halfling Prince comes to Minas Tirith and manages to single-  
handedly defeat many enemies, turns several of the Guard on their  
heads, and drinks a prodigious amount of ale. Although Pippin firmly  
denies any connection between himself and the song, I suspect he is  
its main inspiration, especially as the song states—  
  
Frodo jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder and a large blot marred "he called for another cup."  
  
"What are you doing, Frodo?" Pippin asked him.  
  
"I was writing, Pippin," Frodo answered. "Now I am blotting."  
  
Pippin looked over his shoulder and read out: "And could down three ere he supped." He looked sheepish. "Why are you writing that down?"  
  
"I thought it worth preserving," Frodo answered. He tilted the book and blew on the offending blot.  
  
"Frodo," Pippin began in an exaggeratedly patient voice, "why are you sitting here alone writing doggerel when it's a beautiful day with sights to see and ale to taste?"  
  
Frodo watched the ink lose its shininess as it dried. He blew on it again.  
  
"Merry says to me, Pip, where's Frodo? Anyone seen Frodo lately? And, no, I hadn't. And Merry hadn't. And Sam hadn't either, which surprised him since he was sure you were right behind him when he was walking out of the mess hall. So then, Merry says, blast it, where's he gotten? And Sam says, well, I don't remember what Sam said but it wasn't good."  
  
The inkblot was completely dry now. Frodo picked up a parchment scraper and tried to tease up the edge of the blot. Concentrating, lest he rip the page with the unfamiliar instrument in his weakened right hand.  
  
"So they decided we should look for you. Merry went to the Houses of Healing. Sam went to that place on the walls where you stand and look out sometimes. But I thought, perhaps Frodo was tired and wanted to have a nap. I will check the house and here you are. Writing, so you say."  
  
The scraper skittered across the surface of the blot without lifting it. Frodo muttered under his breath, and began again.  
  
"Frodo, you are not listening to me," Pippin complained.  
  
This time, the scraper slipped neatly under the edge of the blot, and flicked a goodly portion of it off. "I am listening, Pippin. I haven't seen the need to respond yet. I am fine. I only wanted to think. "  
  
Pippin's hand, sun-browned and strong, caught Frodo's as he tried to apply the scraper again. "Alone?"  
  
Frodo looked up into his eyes, which were concerned and not nearly as careless as his prattle had been. "Yes." He tried a small laugh. "It need not concern everyone if I simply wish to sit alone and think for a time."  
  
"But it does. How can it not?" Pippin said quietly.  
  
Frodo sighed. _Since when is Pippin so sensitive? Or so perceptive? He is grown, and in far more than in height. He and Merry and Sam, all grown in their ways; larger than they were. Except for me. I alone end this reduced; less than I once was, not stronger but weaker._  
  
"Yes, how can it not," he agreed tonelessly. He closed the book and set the scraper atop it. Shoving thoughts of writing aside for the time being, he stood up and faced Pippin. "Did you say ale to taste, Pip?"  
  
Pippin's smile flashed across his face, driving the worry from his eyes. "You were listening."  
  
"I'm always listening, Pip," Frodo assured him as they left the house. "Even when I'm snoring." Pippin's laughter rang merrily across the courtyard, and even as he joined in, Frodo wondered at it. _Can it be so? We two laughing in Minas Tirith, together again? We, who so recently despaired of all, love, care, even life_? Then they hurried across the yard, for Merry and Sam were waiting.

/

/

/TBC

/

/

/

/

/

/

Author's Note:

The names are entirely of my own invention. :)


	2. Lance the Wound

**Chapter 2: Lance the Wound**

_"And then Frodo will have to be locked up in a tower in Minas Tirith and write it all down." __- Pippin, The Return of the King_

The Hobbits' cots had been set up along the interior wall of the old dining hall, and cots for Gimli and Legolas were by the window. Originally, there had been precise, three-foot spaces between the cots, giving the room the air of an army barracks. The precision and the spacing had lessened somewhat in recent days. The cots had surprisingly luxurious feather mattresses and smooth, tightly woven sheets, plump pillows, and woolen blankets.

The first night, Pippin scrambled atop a middle cot and bounced. Sam hung back in the doorway, watching.

"Wonderful!" Pippin exclaimed. "Look, Merry! Feather mattresses!" He jumped off, sending the cot skidding sideways to bump into the next.

Merry cocked his head, and gave the cot nearest to him a push. It slid over easily on the smooth floor. Pippin smiled and grabbed the frame of the last cot, moving it until it rested within a hands' span of the other three. Then he lay down upon it, arms spread wide. "Much better," he sighed.

Merry poked him peremptorily. "Move over, Pip." Pippin rolled to the next cot without demurral. Sam came forward and sat down on the other end cot, and Frodo took the middle.

So they had arranged it, and so the cots had stayed. Frodo was comfortable with the closeness, even though he knew it might have bothered him a year prior. Lying there with Pippin kicking him, and Sam turning repeatedly, tossing his blankets about, sleep came easily, and Frodo's thoughts gently, softly uncoiled.

_Wood._

_Gold._

_Tea._

_Bilbo._

_A wooden table, simple pottery dishes. Honey gleams golden on a generous slice of bread and someone is humming. Bilbo is humming. He is sitting at the breakfast table with Bilbo, in Bag End's kitchen. _

A fire is roaring in the hearth, and Bilbo is humming as he spreads butter and honey on bread. He stops and looks over at Frodo, his eyes twinkling.

"It's a good day for writing, my boy," he says. "Cool and grey enough so that one wants to stay inside by the fire and think, but not so cold that one's fingers grow numb on the quill, hey?"

"Quite so, Uncle," Frodo answers, reaching for the honey pot in his turn. Wind whistles around the window frame, sending a shiver down his back. His left arm is particularly chilled. He rubs his left hand with his right, and winces at a sharp stab of pain.

"And what are you up today, lad? Reading, walking, visiting? Or all of the above?" Bilbo chuckles to himself, and refills his teacup.

"I am—" Frodo pauses, confused. What had he planned to do today? He cannot remember. He reaches out to pick up his teacup, and pain, startling in its intensity, shoots down his left side. His hand flexes involuntarily, and the teacup drops and shatters.

Bilbo jumps up in alarm. "Frodo! What is it, Frodo?"

"My side," he manages to say, clutching at it. "Pains me."

Bilbo steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, looking into his face with concern. "You're as white as a sheet, Frodo-lad. Here now, let's take a look." He pulls Frodo's simple blue shirt up, exposing his side. "Heavens! How did this happen?"

Frodo cranes his neck to see where his uncle is pointing. His left ribcage is colored a violent red and purple, and tiny droplets of blood are seeping from a curious pattern of small rings on his skin. He stares at it uncomprehendingly. _It almost looks like that mail-coat of Bilbo's, punched into me. But how?_ Bilbo touches his side tentatively and he hisses with pain.

Bilbo looks up, and his dark eyes are lit with anger. "Who did this to you?"

_Who?_ He cannot remember that either, and he knows he should. He stares down at the lacerated flesh, casting about desperately for some clue. In his mind, there is a sudden flash of black, hairy legs and horrid fangs, an image from his worst nightmares.

"A spider stung me," he blurts. "I remember now, it was a spider, a horrible huge thing and..."

He trails off, lost in thought again. _That wasn't right, was it? Or rather it was right, but not in the way Bilbo was asking_.

Bilbo shakes his head. "This is no spider sting, Frodo," he says chidingly. "This looks more like a beating to me. Tell me, child. Tell me what happened."

_That's right, now the spider is gone and in its place a fearsome warrior stands, corpse-pale with a threatening blade_. "A Big Person stabbed me, he was aiming for my heart but struck the shoulder instead, and left behind a piece of evil in me, it freezes me and burns—"

Sorrow and confusion in Bilbo's eyes, as he touches Frodo's cheek. "Nor yet is this a knife wound. I don't understand, Frodo, are you afraid to tell me the truth?"

_He would never lie, not to his adored Bilbo! If only he could remember_! "No, uncle, it is the truth, it is! Some of it, anyway, I just can't remember it all now."

"Can't remember? My boy, did you not make note of these things when they happened?"

"No, I just wanted to forget. Forget it all, forget it forever."

"And what of this wound?" Bilbo's finger points firmly. "Look at it."

Frodo looks down and chokes back a cry. The injury on his side has swollen obscenely, lumpy and discolored. Red and black streaks radiate from it. Bilbo picks up a sharp little knife from the table and lays it against his side. The silver gleam from the blade blinds him, and he shivers at the feel of cold metal against his skin.

"No," Frodo whispers, through the fear clogging his throat. "Please, don't."

Bilbo's face recedes and blurs, but his voice reaches Frodo clearly. "It must be lanced, Frodo. Lanced to let the poison out. I am sorry, lad, but be brave. Be brave and it will heal the quicker."

The blade bites into his skin hard, and the pain sucks his breath away. His skin gapes apart in the knife's wake, but there is no blood, only a thin seeping of black. Nausea and revulsion choke him. The black threads thicken and join, into a tiny clot of darkness. The first spider pulls itself from the wound. Multitudes more follow. He watches in helpless horror as they pour down his body, over the bench and the table.

_They have eaten me from the inside. There is nothing left of me now_. Tears burn his eyes. _Nothing left of me_.

Frodo jerked awake, his hands brushing desperately at his side, throwing off the bedclothes. _Off, get off me! _ His hands find only smooth linen, and unbroken skin. No spiders.

He gazed at the room's ceiling, trying to get his bearings. He had been asleep, in Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor. He was now awake. Close by him were Sam and Pippin, one to his right, one to his left. Frodo released a long, shuddering breath, and sat up.

There would be no more sleep this night. Gimli snorted, and muttered from the cot by the window. Frodo moved to the end of the cot, careful not to disturb the others' slumber.

The cot was low and small in the way Men figured such things, but his feet dangled an inch or two off the floor. The wooden shutters of the windows had been folded back to the wall, and blocks of pale moonlight lit the room. He walked to the nearest window and looked out, turning without thought to sit upon the sill.

_Is there some hidden truth to be found in the dream_, _or is it merely the mental wanderings of one who has seen too much?_

The moon glowed full in the small reflecting pool, filled anew with crystal-clear water. The wild overgrowth had been neatly trimmed, revealing the garden's fair lines and symmetrical pathways. Fruit trees lined the walls, and here and there rosebushes stubbornly bloomed, despite years of neglect.

The courtyard's tranquility called to him, from the silver-edged leaves to the curved benches that invited repose. He surrendered to it gladly, swinging his legs over the sill and moved deeper into the space.

As he neared the radiant pool, he saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged, looking blankly into the night. Frodo knew that Legolas rested in the Elvish fashion by traveling the green woods of his home in his mind. Frodo turned to leave quietly, but stopped when Legolas spoke. "Can you not sleep this night, Frodo?"

"Forgive me. I did not wish to disturb you."

"You do not disturb me. A restlessness leaves me unquiet, and I sought to soothe my spirit with the scent of growing things."

Frodo inhaled, and the soft air dispelled the tension lingering in his shoulders. "This is pleasant, like a glade in the wild. Surprising to find, in a house and a city of stone."

"In men, softness is often concealed behind an imposing façade."

"Indeed," Frodo agreed, thinking of the harshness with which Aragorn had first treated him.

"Do you wish to speak of what is troubling you?"

"It is difficult." Frodo sat down on the turf, and twined the stems around his fingers. "My people have a proverb, Legolas. 'Least said, soonest mended.' Do the elves say anything of that sort?"

"No. It seems curious to me. Is it believed that denying sorrow decreases it?"

"Yes," Frodo said, thinking of all the things he had been told as a child. _Do not dwell. Do not look back, but forward. Talking mends nothing._ "And also that one ought not burden others with one's troubles."

"But sorrow is an inevitable part of existence. By not acknowledging it, you are denying part of life," said Legolas.

"Is that what the elves believe?"

Legolas spoke remotely, as if from across a vast weight of years. "The sorrow of the elves for the passing Ages of Middle-earth is deep and undying. Yet, we do not dwell perpetually on our grief for those things that must pass away, to fade and be forgotten. One may allow sorrow its time and joy in its turn as well."

"I see," Frodo said politely, wishing he could see it so clearly.

"Is there none with whom you can speak of such things?"

"I am a hobbit of the Shire, Legolas, and cannot fully escape my people's customs. There is one in whom I could confide," Frodo sighed, feeling lost and alone in this big house of white stone. Bilbo, one-time burglar and adventurer, named by Gandalf himself as exceptional among hobbits, would understand. He could listen to Frodo and not be shocked or overwhelmed. "But he is far away."

"Rivendell is far," Legolas agreed. "But not forever out of reach. And there are others that love you close by."

"They are too dear to me," Frodo answered. "They have their own journeys of healing to make, well-begun. I would not burden them now with the evil knowledge I carry."

Legolas looked grave. "Is that decision yours to make?"

"I judge it so." Frodo pictured them in his mind, Pippin, Merry, and dearest of all, Sam. They slept still, a simple, easy sleep. He would not destroy that.

Legolas' fair Elvish face seemed troubled. "I can not advise you, Frodo, and you must do as you deem best." He looked around the moonlit night, his keen eyes piercing the gloom, and gestured gracefully at the peaceful courtyard. "The trees and the earth have born silent witness to my troubles, when none other could."

Frodo surprised himself by laughing. "I am not so far from what I was that I can feel comfortable talking to a tree, Legolas." Even as the words left his lips, the image of the blue book surfaced within his mind. Not to a tree, no, nor yet to the earth, but what about a diary, a record for his eyes alone?

He had thought to chronicle details of the city and of Aragorn's first days of rule, but perhaps darker subjects should be exorcised first. _After all_, _Bilbo did tell me to take notes on my journey. I have been woefully deficient in that regard. Another failing, yet one I can still remedy._

He looked at Legolas and smiled. "My thanks, Legolas. You have given me some measure of comfort and beyond that, an inspiration, that may be of further assistance."

Legolas nodded. "You are welcome, Frodo."

The decision made brought a feeling of release for the first time in many days. Frodo returned thoughtfully to his cot. _Lance it?_ "I can try," he whispered to the dark. "Since you are not here, I will try."

The next morning after breakfast, Sam opened his pack and rummaged through it. Pippin leaned curiously over his shoulder and sniffed the air. "What is that dreadful smell?" he asked.

Sam blushed bright red.

"Pippin!" Merry said.

Pippin looked injured. "I am not referring to Sam, Merry. It is—" He sniffed again and frowned. "His pack. It smells funny."

Merry took a closer look at the pack himself. "I think the leather is damaged, Sam." He pointed at a few light green patches on the bottom.

Sam looked defensive. "Yes, sir, that's a fact and I'll be tending to it. A bit of mildew started," he said, "but cleaning and oiling is all it needs."

Merry frowned. "You can get another from the stores."

Sam shook his head. "This pack has traveled with me all the way from the Shire to Rivendell to Lorien and--"

He stopped, looking quickly at Frodo before continuing. "And--beyond. I wouldn't put it aside for a hundred newer packs." He stroked the worn leather of the straps with a gentle hand. "I can fix it good as new."

Merry looked doubtfully from the pack to Sam's face, and shrugged. "If you can fix that, Sam, I'll buy you a mug of the City's finest."

"Done," Sam agreed, quick as a wink. "My old gaffer'd say, only a fool throws away what can be cleaned with a little sweat." His voice dropped to a murmur. "Or a Brandybuck and a Took."

Pippin smiled. "But I think too much sweat is the problem."

Frodo looked at them in amusement. "Merry, I think you'll be buying ale. Are you forgetting Sam's cleaned up after me all these years? If that does not grant expertise, nothing would!"

Sam sat down and removed from his pack a simple drawstring bag. The sight of it tightened Frodo's throat. "Look, Mr. Frodo, I still have your food-bag. I can repair it as well, and Mr. Merry will have to buy a mug for us both."

Frodo struggled not to let his smile falter. "Wonderful."

"I don't quite see how that follows unless Frodo will be cleaning," Merry objected.

Sam tucked the bag away, and Frodo felt his breath coming easier. "I am putting my property up for a rather mysterious experiment in leather repair, am I not? Involving a degree of risk. I deserve some reward for it. I may have the merest shred of a bag left on the morrow."

Merry's laughter echoed gaily throughout the house. "True, Sam. Did you consider that the dirt might be all that holds it together?"

Sam shook his head, and gave up the fight good-naturedly. After second breakfast, he made his way to the Crafters' Street, and returned with several bundles and bottles. He carried the supplies out to the courtyard, arranging them and his pack neatly in a sunny area by the kitchen doorway. An outdoor pump sheltered under the overhang, probably intended for clothes washing in the far past. He filled two basins with water, another two with oil, and set out a cake of soap, rags and brushes.

While Sam worked, Frodo came out to join him, settling upon the sun warmed ground where he could lean against the pool's low wall. He opened the small chest of writing supplies and removed the book of blue leather. The silver Tree glinted in the sunlight.

Sam looked over. "What do you have there, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.

Frodo ran his fingers along the silky edges of the pages. "An old book, Sam. I found it upstairs. It is a bit ripped up but still useable. I thought I would make some notes for Bilbo."

Sam squinted in the sunlight. "Mr. Bilbo'd like that proper. And maybe some sketches of the walls and such. You could do it justice, Mr. Frodo. This White City isn't like anything any hobbit has ever seen."

"Maybe." Frodo looked at Sam's bright head affectionately as he bent to his work. Sam's pack was worn and stained from hard use. "Did you find the things you needed?"

"Yes sir, though they wouldn't tell me exactly what they were." Sam chuckled to himself as he lathered the soap.

"Wouldn't tell you? Why not?"

Sam dabbed a small amount of lather on the pack and brushed it briskly. "Well, leather-workers are secretive folk, Mr. Frodo. Their formulas for oils and tanners are passed down father to son, being their bread and butter."

Sam set the pack down and tilted the nearest basin, rubbing a little of its yellowish contents on his fingers. "I can tell one thing about this, though. That's got neatsfoot oil in it, sure as I'm a Gamgee, and maybe lanolin, too." His fingers glistened, and he wiped them off on a rag. "Greasy stuff, that."

He took up the pack again, brushing the lather into a small section of the front. The lather turned brown and he wiped it off gently, before beginning the process again. His arm rose and fell steadily, and he hummed softly under his breath.

Frodo ceased trying to open the inkbottle and cocked his head to the side, listening. The tune was very familiar. The words clicked suddenly into place. It was a Shire work song, with simple repetitive lyrics. He had heard it last in the fields at harvest time.

The tune seemed to carry the smell of warm earth and cut grain, heat and laughter. He pressed a hand over his forehead, shaken by the nearness of tears. _Sam can go back to that life. He can just leave behind the darkness and the terror, and never look back. But I already know that I cannot. Bilbo, how did you leave behind the shadow of Mirkwood and Smaug? How did you forget the Battle of Five Armies? _He wished more than anything that the old hobbit was there to tell him. He caressed the book's front cover. _Was it writing the Red Book that did it for you?_

With another glance at Sam, absorbed in his work, Frodo opened the book and dipped his quill. He finished the lyrics he had started the day before, adding below in small letters: _As sung in Minas Tirith by Men in the year 1419(SR)._

He turned this page over, and continued writing on the next.

**7 May 1419(SR)**

I, Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, heir of Bilbo, and lately of the Shire, set forth here my personal observations and recollections of certain events occurring during the War of the Ring, in which I played some small part. It is my hope that this account may illustrate to others, both scholars and casual readers, the dangers that came to threaten all free peoples of Middle Earth.

Furthermore, despite the apparent destruction of that Evil, it is my belief that only with vigilance, understanding and unceasing care can people of good heart remain so.

The Ring and its creator are apparently destroyed. The King has returned to his Kingdom, and after many long years of strife, it seems that peace may finally come to Middle Earth. And I—I sit in a large, airy house, at my leisure to read, write, and talk with my friends and Companions. This is the end of a long, dark tale, and a fair and beautiful end it seems. But I find I am not wholly comfortable to sit in the sunshine and let the warmth bake the chill from me, to eat until the marks of hunger ease, or to lull my mind with pleasure until the experiences in the dark fade like that of a dream one can only vaguely recall.

It seems to me that some record should be made, some lasting recognition of the struggle and pain many endured in this long effort against the Shadow. For my part, that record must come from me, for even Sam knew little of what I experienced on the journey, and still less of the full extent of my failure.

The reader may be allowed some surprise at this point, for I have already described the ending and labeled it fair. If that is true, then how can I say also that I failed? The reader will point to the successful coronation of King Elessar, of the downfall of the Lord of the Rings, and the destruction of the Ring of Power as evidence of the falsity of my statement. But if any hope is to be found for a long respite in the sunshine, then the dark must be faced, as well. That is why I say unflinchingly: I failed.

And amidst the light and celebration, I hear a call, a necessity to record what I can remember of the dark, while I may. For my heart forebodes that the record may be needed, although for what I cannot imagine.

I examine my failure with the acuity of one who sits in comfort and safety, able to leisurely examine and probe the past. It seems to me that its roots, twisted and tangled with so many other circumstances and other souls and others' failures, could be teased out with some little effort. The first strand that shows itself to me is the Council.

**The Council of Elrond**

I listened to the Wise debate what was to be done with the Ring. I could not think of anything to contribute so I said nothing. I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap, and my legs tucked securely against the pile of cushions on which I sat, so that none of my tremors were visible to those around me. And yet, my heart pounded. Pounded and pounded, and my throat clogged with fear whenever someone rose to speak. When would they ask me to show it? When might some lord of high and ancient lineage ask that I put it aside, that I place it in his hand?

I imagined my hand jerking and shaking, thinking I had dropped the Ring, only to find that I had replaced it in my pocket, and I imagined how those around me might react. To have come so far and suffered so much on its account, and still be betrayed by desire for it. I remember Gandalf saying, _Rings of Power look after themselves_, and only now did the full meaning of his words bear down upon me.

The desire to put on the Ring at Weathertop had not been mine. I had yielded to the Ring's insidious pressure, wakened from its sleep by the presence of Sauron's chief minions. And if the subtle twisting of its intent had proved out, would I not have laid the Ring at Sauron's feet? Not by my will, but by the will of the thing I bore.

Knowing this, how could I still sit and be unable to imagine handing it over to another without a wrench to my heart and mind? And yet, something within whispered that I could do this thing, if pressed. I could release it to the will of the Council, and see it pass from me forever. Bilbo used to say that every hobbit had the seed of bravery in him, and perhaps mine was only then beginning to grow. Once I would not have believed myself capable of enduring what I had already, and I was not yet spent. I would do what was necessary.

When Bilbo jumped to his feet and announced he would finish it, dread gripped my heart. Here, then, was my test. My hand crept up to touch the Ring through my shirt, in farewell and regret.

When Bilbo was politely declined, his eyes briefly found mine. Concern was in his face, and sadness, as if he did not wish to say the words that followed. It was a mere instant of time, before he turned back to Elrond. "Can't you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?"#

Bilbo was answered by silence, and at last, I saw clearly the task I had been appointed. Weariness and resignation nearly overwhelmed me. The Wise had decided the Ring must go to Mordor. Therefore so must I. Fantasies and wishes to stay in Rivendell with Bilbo, to learn about elves and return to the Shire as an accomplished adventurer, and the true heir of Bilbo faded before grim reality.

I opened my mouth, not quite sure what I would say until I heard it, but knowing I must speak. In my naiveté, I had thought the test would be to release my burden to the Council, but in truth, it was to speak into that fearsome silence, offering my small life to their wisdom.

_"I will take the Ring... though I do not know the way."#_

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_/_Author's Note:

# Direct quotes from _The Fellowship of the Ring_

Sam's pack is canonical. Sam throws away his gear, but keeps his pack to the end. Frodo loses everything in the Tower, but finds his food-bag among the rags. I extrapolated that Sam would not throw away Frodo's food-bag with the gear, even when it was empty. It was most likely smaller than a pack, of cloth or leather, and probably weighed very little.

Neatsfoot oil (made from animal hooves) and lanolin are ancient ingredients in leather conditioners. Leatherworkers were very secretive, with families having their own handed-down formulas for tanning and coloring leather.


	3. Writing Lesson

**Chapter 3: Writing Lesson**  
  
_"I am permitted to wear the One Ring: why cannot I see all the others and know the thoughts of those that wear them?" -Frodo, The Fellowship of the Ring_

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Frodo set his quill down and flexed his right hand. A dull ache had begun in his right hand, spreading across the knuckles and to the base of the missing forefinger. Sam looked up from his work. "Is your hand bothering you, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Not overly so, Sam." Frodo said. He was reluctant to stop writing. The awkward movements he made with the quill had barely begun to flow smoothly, readably over the page. He needed additional practice if he was to improve.  
  
"Let me see." Sam came over to kneel beside Frodo, inspecting his bandaged hand closely. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I think it's time you got that changed." He gently touched a red stain on the cloth. "See? And it's been a couple of days."  
  
Frodo flexed his hand again, feeling a renewed ache in the muscles. He nodded reluctantly. Perhaps a respite would be best. "Very well. I will go now." He capped his inkbottle and wiped the quill, packing them and the book into the small chest.  
  
"Just a moment, Mr. Frodo, and I'll walk with you," Sam said. He set his bowls inside the kitchen and then rinsed his hands.  
  
Frodo looked at him in surprise, for he had thought that Sam would continue his repairs. Frodo knew he enjoyed working with his hands, restoring a small piece of the Shire he loved to its former state. That Sam would so readily put it aside to act as Frodo's escort saddened him.  
  
"That is unnecessary, Sam," Frodo said quietly. "I am perfectly capable of walking to the Houses of Healing on my own."  
  
Sam paused in the act of wiping his hands on a rag. "Of course you are, sir, but I wouldn't mind a breather; smelling this oil puts a bad taste in your mouth after a while."  
  
"Ah. Well, come on then; I am always glad of your company."  
  
They walked from the courtyard through the quiet house, seeing no one. Legolas often walked about the City, taking Gimli with him, and Merry had gone with Pippin to the Guard-house. Big Folk walked the streets outside, hurrying here and there on their own business.  
  
Sam's stomach growled loudly, and Frodo glanced at him with a smile. "Are you sure you do not wish to stay, Sam?"  
  
Sam patted his stomach. "Perhaps we could get a late luncheon at the--what is it they call it here? Public house? In the sixth circle."  
  
"A late luncheon? I believe the correct term would be a second luncheon," Frodo said lightly, as they turned onto the main road, nimbly dodging the other passers-by. "I feared you would become so engrossed in your work that you might forget the need to eat."  
  
"Me, sir? Not likely. We both have some catching up to do in that area." Sam surveyed Frodo critically. "Why what Mr. Bilbo would have to say to me if he saw you now, I don't know."  
  
"I think that he would say that you have done better than anyone could, and thank you for it," Frodo said quietly. He resolved to eat more, if doing so would ease Sam's mind, and imagined returning to Rivendell enormously fat, like Bombur in Bilbo's stories. _I see you didn't go hungry, lad_, Bilbo would say acerbically. _Oh, Bilbo, if only you knew_!  
  
At the Houses of Healing, Frodo sent Sam to the public house, with a promise to join him shortly. Frodo entered the Houses alone, as was his habit. It distressed Sam to see his master in pain, and Sam's distress increased Frodo's struggles to conceal it, burdening him further. The Warden had noted this early, and in his wisdom, advised them that companions were best left in the House's anteroom.  
  
After greeting him, the Warden bid him sit. A carefully altered chair sat beneath the window, with shortened legs and armrests so that a hobbit could rest in comfort. The Warden took Frodo's hand between his own and examined it carefully.  
  
"Ink?" he asked, looking at the black blotches on the second and third fingers. "You have been writing?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
"Perhaps an hour's span of time," Frodo replied. He felt a stab of dismay. _Had it been so long_? _And so little of the _Notes _accomplished_!  
  
The healer frowned. "Mr. Baggins, I beg you to remember that the healing area is fragile. You must not overexert. I do not believe you should write for any longer than an hour."  
  
"Thank you for your advice and concern, Warden. I will be careful."  
  
The healer looked at him sharply, experienced enough to realize that despite the fair words, Frodo had not promised to limit his writing. The healer was not overly dismayed. He would seek another route to his goal.  
  
The Warden took up a thin sharp knife and slit the dressing expertly. Easing it apart, he shook his head, and concern was evident in his voice. "The unaccustomed exertion has caused bleeding in addition to the usual drainage."  
  
The Warden fixed Frodo with a firm stare. "If you must write, then you must improve your technique, Master Perian. The stump must not touch the quill; at this stage of the healing, it cannot withstand that type of pressure. Hold the quill in this manner."  
  
He plucked a quill from his desk and curled Frodo's three undamaged fingers about it, then brought the thumb up. "Brace the quill by curling the thumb over it, and not against the index finger as you are accustomed. Now, move your hand as if you are writing."  
  
Frodo waved the quill in the air tentatively, and then with more confidence. The Warden was right; with the quill tucked next to his thumb there was little pain! "I am astounded by your erudition, Master Healer," he said. "This is extraordinary. I feel as if I could write a great deal more today."  
  
The Warden's eyes twinkled but his voice was stern. "I insist that you do not, Master Frodo. I do not wish my labor thus far to have been in vain."  
  
Frodo set the quill down. "Certainly." He could not resist adding: "I also do not wish that your labor should be in vain."  
  
The Warden bustled off, returning a moment later with a bowl of fragrant water. "An infusion of athelas, which our King esteems so highly. Allow the hand to soak as you usually do, and we will re-wrap it."  
  
Frodo settled back into his chair, with the warm bowl in his lap. From previous dressing changes, he knew it would take several minutes for the dried blood and fluids to soak free from the healing area. He stared down meditatively into the water, bending his head to breathe in the steam. The scent tingled in his nose, then throughout his body, rejuvenating and refreshing. Tension eased from his neck and back, as did the long-standing ache in his left shoulder. He swirled his right hand through the water, keeping it completely immersed.  
  
_My handwriting will be awkward until I become accustomed to this new technique--if I ever can. I wonder if Bilbo would recognize it? And after all that practice to develop a fair hand._  
  
He straightened the bowl with his left hand, and noticed the water no longer reflected the blue sky visible from the window, now showing the shape of the hand clearly. He glanced away but his eyes were drawn inexorably back. Gollum had bitten the finger off almost evenly with his hand, leaving a very small stump just above the knuckle.  
  
The silhouette was now so odd, so intrinsically wrong. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could feel a finger there still, could he not? It itched sometimes, and more than once he had absentmindedly reached to scratch it, startled all over again when he encountered its absence. One night, it pained him so fiercely he was unable to sleep, and he wondered how to explain that his missing finger hurt. _How long until I stop expecting to see a whole hand? Months? Years_?  
  
He felt the cloth loosen and wiggled his thumb experimentally under the slit edge. The pain made him grimace; it was as if the cloth pulled the barely healing skin off with it. Traces of what looked like reddish smoke spiraled lazily up through the water. He gritted his teeth, for while this was not the worst pain he'd ever endured, the slow release of cloth from the wound, throbbing and ripping, and the ghostly tingling of the missing finger were nauseating in their intensity.  
  
The bandage came free abruptly with a rising crescendo of torment. He closed his eyes, knowing from experience that the waves of pain would slowly recede to a level he could tolerate. As it began to ease, he sighed. _How expert I have become at gauging pain. Analyzing the peaks and valleys, when one can only blindly endure and when it can be pushed aside_.  
  
When the worst had passed (_only for today_, whispered a voice in the back of his mind), he opened his eyes to examine the wound, remembering another wound as he did so.  
  
For on a day not long ago, Frodo had witnessed a young soldier brought to the House. Frodo had been sitting then just as he was now, sitting and soaking. The soldier was supported between two friends, and nearly unable to walk. A fetid stench hung about him. The Warden had placed him in the room next to the one where Frodo sat, and Frodo had been able to hear their speech.  
  
The high, frightened voice of the soldier stammered about how he'd not thought his small foot wound serious. Binding it tightly, he forced his boot on and marched back from the Field of Cormallen. The Warden's voice was grave as he directed the attendants to cut the boot off, and seconds later, a powerful odor redolent of decay permeated the entire ground floor.  
  
A young attendant burst through the connecting door and vomited noisily into a basin. Through the open door, Frodo had seen the foot, it was blackened and peeling as if badly burned. The Warden jerked his head around; looking annoyed and caught sight of Frodo.  
  
A minute later, the eldest assistant, Ioreth came to close the door and air the room, trying to keep up her usual chatter as she re-wrapped his bandage, but with a pale face and sorrowful eyes. Frodo had seen the young soldier once more, this time sporting a bandage on his foot that resembled Frodo's own. At least three toes, perhaps more were absent. Perhaps they fell off. Frodo shuddered slightly, and looked at his hand again, searching intently for any signs of the deadly black color.  
  
The skin at the end of the stump was ragged and torn, an unhealthy tan color that would have worried him if not for the barely visible pink rim of new skin growing under it. Eventually the new skin would grow over the entire stump, so he had been told. The center of the wound had slowly begun to fill in with bright red meaty-looking flesh with yellow blobs and threads in it.  
  
The Warden had explained that this tissue grew as a replacement for what the body had lost, making a solid base for the new skin. _Like smoothing plaster into a chink in the wall_. Until recently, he had seen the tip of white bone when the dressing was changed. This new flesh oozed yellow and pink drainage that dried on the bandages and made a hard crust. The crust would slow his healing if allowed to form unchecked, thus necessitating frequent visits to the House for soaking and re-dressing.  
  
There was no black visible anywhere, he saw at once with relief, just reds and pinks, tans and yellows. He turned his hand in the water, watching the ragged edges of skin flutter, where his senses yet still insisted a finger existed. _How appropriate is this wound given me by Sméagol. Paradoxical, both absent and present, as was Sméagol himself. Sam would not see it so, of course. He credited me with such kindness to Sméagol, but I knew better. I did pity him, but there was something more when I accepted his oath in the Emyn Muil...  
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Author's Note:  
  
In this fic, readers will notice that Frodo's injury is apparently to his right index finger, a contradiction to Tolkien's explicit "the third finger was missing." In LOTR the movie, Frodo always wears the Ring on the left forefinger. In the text, only twice are we given any indication as to which finger Frodo is using to wear the Ring.  
  
At Weathertop, the left forefinger ...and at Orodruin, the right third finger. I like the book's use of the right hand because that hand is the 'hand of power' in mysticism and philosophy. But I have always disliked the imprecise imagery of 'the third finger'. In my readings of early civilizations, it was very rare to wear rings on something other than one of the index fingers---ESPECIALLY rings that connoted rank, be it royal, religious or military. And it seems odd that after Frodo wore the Ring on the forefinger, it should suddenly shrink to fit the third finger. So in this fic, I have used the right index finger. You could consider this a tiny instance of AU, if you like--Lurea-verse.

The soldier's foot is afflicted with wet-gangrene--a terrible and often fatal wound infection. The smell of a gangrenous limb is the most horrible stench imaginable--like B.O, rotten eggs, and decaying corpses put together. In the ones I've attended the smell constantly permeated an entire hospital ward (with modern ventilation and everything)--for as long as the patient was in residence. And when I took the patient's dressing off... Well, it was bad enough to make me glad I hadn't eaten that day.


	4. In Mercy and Pity

**Chapter 4: In Mercy and Pity**  
  
_"Before you could use that power you would need to become far stronger, and train your will to the domination of others." -Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring_

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"Master Baggins?" Ioreth, assistant in the Houses of Healing, stood before Frodo.  
  
Frodo startled out of his thoughts of Sméagol, straightened and nearly spilled the bowl in which his injured hand soaked. "Yes?"  
  
Ioreth smiled and put one hand out to steady it. "The Warden sent me to re- bandage your hand. Here, let me see it. You've done part of my job already by removing the old dressing. Don't feel you must do that, Master." She lifted his hand from the bowl and gently dried it with a whisper-soft piece of old linen, leaving behind pinkish smudges.  
  
"I find it pains less when I do it, Ioreth." Frodo refused to be any more dependent than he must.  
  
"Very well," she said absently, removing the towel. " I don't believe your writing has done too much harm. Yes, it looks wonderful!"  
  
Frodo looked down curiously but his hand was unchanged to his eyes: rather gruesome and pitiable, but certainly not wonderful. "What do you see that looks wonderful, Ioreth?"  
  
She finished drying his hand, and picked up a little pot of ointment, which she rubbed into the undamaged portions of his hand, so that the dressings did not dry and crack the healthy skin. As she massaged it in, being careful not to get any in the wound, she looked at him, her wrinkled face kind. "I see healthy blood and healthy flesh, Master Baggins. I see the beginnings of the new skin that will cover this wound, soft and fragile now, but it will toughen soon enough."  
  
She picked up a soft linen pad and poured water over it from a silver pitcher nearby. "Now take a deep breath and try to relax. You know what I must do."  
  
Frodo nodded. Once dampened, she placed the linen pad over the top of the stump, and pressed it firmly into place. Frodo's muscles tightened despite his best effort to stay relaxed and she murmured sympathetically. "My apologies, Master Baggins, I know that hurts."  
  
"Not terribly so," he managed to say. The Warden had explained that it was necessary to firmly adhere the cloth to the wound with each dressing change. "When the dressing is changed, Master Baggins, the cloth pulls away the upper layer of blood, dirt and debris, leaving fresh new tissue. Then the wound will heal the quicker, and with the least amount of scarring."  
  
With a deft touch, Ioreth molded the cloth to his hand, and covered the damp pad with a larger dry one, winding a long strip around his hand to hold the pads in place. "The Warden always sends you to do the re- wrapping," Frodo commented.  
  
She laughed softly. "I have something of a knack for it, young master. They say my dressings never fall off." She finished and tied off the ends briskly. "There, I believe that will withstand a reasonable amount of writing. Not too much, mind you, and if it bleeds, you must return and allow me to re-dress it. If not, then you may wait another pair of days."  
  
"I will do as you command." Frodo stood up and bowed. "Thank you, Ioreth, for granting me the benefit of your expert skill."  
  
She flapped a hand at him in exasperation. "Go on with you, sir! Just like young Merry, always teasing!"

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Frodo found Sam sitting quietly in a corner of the public house across from the Houses. A low seat had been hastily improvised for him by means of a board set across two small barrels, and the seat of a bench served him for a table. Sam's head was bowed over his trencher, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the other patrons. When Frodo stepped over the threshold, the publican himself came forward. "Master Perian," he said. "What can I get for you, sir?"  
  
Frodo had little appetite, but was tempted by the scent of fresh-baked bread in the air. "Bread and cider will serve me, good sir."  
  
After the publican hurried off, Frodo sat down beside Sam, who looked up expectantly. "How is your hand, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.  
  
Frodo shrugged. "Well enough. Ioreth seemed pleased."  
  
"That's good news then. Ioreth, she knows what's what."  
  
A serving-maid set down a basket of rich brown bread and a tankard of sharp cider. Frodo picked up a knife and awkwardly spread some butter onto the first warm slice. Sam watched, saying nothing, but Frodo knew he was restraining himself from reaching over and doing it for him. He spoke to forestall it. "Do you remember meeting Gollum in the Emyn Muil, Sam?"  
  
Sam's gaze shot to his face. "Don't I!"  
  
"I found myself remembering that just now, and wondering where his path might have led had we not come upon him."  
  
Sam took another swallow of his ale. "Nowhere good, Mr. Frodo. He had nothing but thievery and murder in mind right from the start. Naught but a villain he was!" Frodo looked at him, startled at the bald statement and Sam's vehemence. Sam flushed, and continued: "Look at the way he acted when he first got It. Killing his friend! That shows he was rotten to the core."  
  
"The evil of the Ring could corrupt anyone, Sam. Even the very Wise, like Gandalf and Galadriel."  
  
Sam shook his head stubbornly. "No, and I'll beg your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I don't believe it. Anyone with eyes could see the difference in you— "He stopped abruptly, and buried his nose in his tankard. The tips of his ears turned red.  
  
Frodo regarded him with interest. Beyond a brief recital to the others of the Fellowship, they had spoken very little of their time in Mordor, for Sam wished only to forget. This conversation, begun in idleness, was proving to have a twist. "See what, Sam?"  
  
Sam raised his head, looking embarrassed. "Well, now, Mr. Frodo, a ninnyhammer like me's got no business talking about such things."  
  
Ah! Now he thought he understood Sam's hesitance. Sam refused to speak ill of his master, of the differences in Frodo as the Ring began to wear heavily. "I am lucky indeed, to have a friend like you. Of course, you noticed a difference in me. I do not expect you to deny it, my dear Sam."  
  
Sam's mouth fell open and he slapped his forehead. "Trust you to say the wrong thing all over again, Samwise Gamgee! I've gone and made you think I'm talking about you, master, when nothing could be farther from the truth!"  
  
Frodo frowned in confusion and then laughed. "Sam, what exactly you are trying to say? I regret to say that I am utterly perplexed." He raised his eyebrows and looked at Sam encouragingly.  
  
Sam let his breath out, and spoke in a rush. "Well, it's like this, Mr. Frodo. The first time we ran into that Stinker, I saw clear the difference between you and him, and there was no mistaking it. It wasn't like I saw you with my eyes, if you understand me, but with other eyes or—or with my heart. Seeing you next to Gollum was like putting me, plain as mud, next to that Lady Galadriel. Only Gollum was a little beaten down dog, turned mean, and you were like one of those elves, sad maybe and far off, but good and true and—"  
  
Sam broke off and shook his head. "Probably just a fair bit o' nonsense, which is why I never said anything before. I'm not good with words like Mr. Bilbo, but I looked at you and thought, 'Now that is quality. Master Frodo has quality and no mistake.'"  
  
Frodo could not think of what to say to this astounding revelation. "You give me too much credit, Sam."  
  
Sam looked mutinous. "No, Mr. Frodo, I know what I saw."  
  
Frodo finished his bread in silence, thinking of what Sam had said. Seeing with other eyes? It almost sounded like some sort of vision. Sam would not say it if he did not believe it true. Could it be the Ring's presence close to Sam for so long that had caused this? Galadriel had said, "...as Ring-bearer...your sight is grown keener." How widespread could the Ring's influence be?  
  
Or perhaps he erred in attributing the vision to the Ring. Perhaps one of those Lords of the West had taken a hand. Frodo shivered, deeply disconcerted by the thought that one of the mythical Architects of creation would know of him: know his name, his dear ones, his failures and weaknesses.  
  
As they were preparing to leave, Sam spoke. "That Ioreth, she didn't fix your cuffs," he said and pointed at the cuffs Frodo had left open; the small buttons were especially difficult for him to refasten. Frodo held one arm out and Sam buttoned it quickly, his fingers lingering over the pale inside of the wrist, where the coarsely woven bandage circled it. "Quality," he said softly, almost to himself. "Quality and no mistake."  
  
Frodo touched his shoulder companionably and together they walked back toward the Palace. He thought of Sméagol several more times throughout the day, and the next morning was more than ready to take up his quill again.  
  
**The Taming of Sméagol**  
  
As we traveled through the Emyn Muil, Sam and I had talked about Gollum. We both knew he would be following us. I could imagine very well the obsessive need that drove him so I did not deceive myself that I would not encounter him. When we came down the last cliff of the Emyn Muil and made camp, I arranged to take the first watch. I did not do it purposefully, but I felt increasingly watched, as if eyes I could not see lurked just beyond my vision. This was in addition to the intermittent times when the Eye would rove near me, cutting off my breath and freezing my blood.  
  
Sam was not yet sleeping when I heard it: a hissing whisper directly in my ear. "Preciousssss... "  
  
I whirled, sure, that Gollum had somehow crept behind me unseen and that the next thing I would feel would be his clammy fingers about my neck. Nothing. His hissing breath came again, mixed with imprecations, so close, so near! _Where was he_?  
  
"Nassty Baggins, stole my Precious, gollum, stole it, he did—" I looked at Sam but he obviously heard nothing.  
  
_Was the Ring already affecting my mind_? I looked around desperately, afraid to contemplate that question. That was when I saw him. Creeping down the wall, whispering and talking to his Precious as he came.  
  
I roused Sam, and soon Gollum was close enough that even Sam could hear his whispers. Gollum was drawn to the Ring, and I realized that there was no hope of evading him this time. Sam leaped on him when he fell from the lowest point of the cliff, but was overcome. I seized Gollum and put Sting across his neck.  
  
I was afraid, so afraid that I would have cut his throat if he had struggled. I had steeled myself to it for I remembered how Bilbo feared being throttled and eaten at the end of the riddle game, and it was far more than my own life at risk. Mine, I was willing to wager, indeed had wagered and already lost, but there was Sam, and the Ring to consider.

Gollum was similar in nature to a Nazgûl, I thought, bound to seek it and bring it to that One in the Tower. When he sank down before us, shivering and crying, I was taken by surprise. Two words struck me as horribly true in that disjointed conversation.  
  
"Wretched!" he cried, and: "misery, misery." The creature was miserable and wretched, driven by his distorted love for the Ring and his fear of Sauron, but that did not make him any less dangerous. More, in fact, for the last tatters of his sanity rested upon regaining the Ring, and to that end he would excuse or deny anything.  
  
It seemed as if I could read all this in him, as if it were written in the greenish gaze of his eyes. Perhaps the safest thing to do would be to slay him immediately, before he could achieve whatever mischief he had in mind, but I could not, in cold blood. I set him to lead us, as I would advance a pawn on a board, a trial of one's opponent so that one may begin to learn their ways and weaknesses.  
  
He was deceptively compliant and Sam and I pretended to sleep. When he sprang away, we were ready, and Sam tied him. He screamed and groveled and I suppressed the urge to kick him. I wondered why I had earlier feared him, as my hand touched the Ring through my shirt.  
  
Gollum wailed and pleaded as I tried to reason with him. Was there nothing to be done? Would I be forced to slay the wretched creature? I did not wish any death on my hands, least of all his, twisted as he was by the evil of the Ring around my neck. And I could not forget Gandalf's warning that Gollum could have some part yet to play.  
  
Gollum would promise on the Precious, he said. On the Precious! How dare he! I could not allow it. The evil thing would twist the promise in some way. It was far too dangerous...for him, and perhaps for me, as well. Had not Galadriel warned me of the dangers of seeking domination over others?  
  
I stood lost in thought for a moment, staring over Gollum's head at the cliff face. Almost, I imagined, I could see us three reflected: Sam, tense and alert, Gollum, crouched miserably, and myself, one hand clutched to my chest.  
  
The figures of my imagination abruptly shimmered and shifted, as if the stone were water, rippling in the wind. The Frodo figure moved, lifting his head to address Gollum in a conversational tone of voice. "Leap from the precipice, Gollum. It's no more than you deserve." The imaginary-Sam jerked around to stare at Frodo, his lips parting as if to protest.  
  
Gollum wailed horribly, even as his body moved stiffly to obey. "Please! No, precious, no!"  
  
Vision-Frodo smiled chillingly, and held up the Ring. Spoke again, in a penetrating whisper. "Leap, Sméagol." _Only then will Sam and I be safe. Safe_.  
  
Sméagol screamed in despair as his feet carried him forward, to the edge where sharp-spined rock lurked below.  
  
My eyes snapped from the horror in the rock to Gollum, the real Gollum before me, and I pulled my hand convulsively away from the Ring. I would not, would not do that! Never! _I am Frodo Baggins, Drogo's son, Bilbo's heir, of the Shire..._  
  
Gollum was weeping and biting at his ankle again, and I saw teardrops falling into the dust by his feet. He did not even bother to wipe them away. Why should he? How long since he had been in the presence of someone who cared if he wept?  
  
Uncounted years alone in the dark, bound by evil, and then discarded by it when his usefulness had ended. Why did that careless abandonment horrify me, that he should be used, consumed, tortured and thrown aside? He was merely one small person, and not even a particularly good one, at that. What did his life matter?  
  
I bowed my head. There was no easy answer to this riddle. I could not send him away. I could not leave him free. To bind him would be like torture, and that I would not do. To master him was the only option remaining. _With pity for what was. With mercy for what is. Remember that._ I stared into flickering light of his eyes, and decided:  
  
"Speak your promise."

/

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/TBC

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Author's Note:  
  
The Ring makes Sam's hearing keener. I assume that Frodo would begin to experience similar effects after bearing it for so long, even though he does not have it on finger.  
  
Some readers may have a question about the dressing on Frodo's wound. This type of dressing is called a wet-to-dry dressing, and is still used in hospitals today. It is used on especially dirty wounds, as it produces "mechanical debridement"--i.e. the dirt and cellular debris that might otherwise cultivate infection and retard healing adheres to the wet dressing and gets stuck to it as the gauze dries. Then when the dressing is removed, this gunk is ripped off, leaving fresh clean tissue. It is exquisitely painful to the patient. I have used wet-to-dry dressings many times in my nursing career. However, they are gradually becoming more rare, and being replaced by chemical-saturated dressings that produce the same effect.  
  
In a hospital today, for a wound such as Frodo's, I would expect to change his dressing twice a day, morning and evening. In past wars, dressings were put on and generally left until they fell off. It seemed a reasonable compromise to me, in Minas Tirith, after the War of the Ring (which presumably put something of a strain on their medical resources), that they would change the dressing every couple of days.


	5. The Pitcher Plant

**Chapter 5: The Pitcher Plant  
**  
__

_"Talking won't mend nothing," he muttered to himself..._  
_-Samwise, The Return of the King_  
  
Frodo set his pen down and eased one leg forward, wincing at the tingles and burning. Writing on his lap whilst sitting on stone was more painful than he had thought. He put his hands behind him and levered his bum off the stone. Ahh, better. Perhaps a pillow?  
  
Gimli snorted suspiciously from his place in the shadows of the gallery. "You look uncomfortable, Frodo. You need a chair."  
  
Frodo shaded his eyes with his hand. "But dangling feet fall asleep nearly as quickly as curled ones."  
  
Gimli laughed and patted the axe on his belt. "That can be mended easily enough." He stood up and disappeared through the doorway. Frodo heard several smart blows and Gimli reappeared carrying one of the chairs from the dining room, oddly foreshortened. He set it down next to Frodo on newly-chopped legs.  
  
"A bit large, still." Four more expert blows and the chair sat next to Frodo at the perfect height.  
  
"Why, thank--" Frodo began, but Gimli held up one hand and turned back to the house. Frodo sat down, wondering where he was going. The chair wobbled a bit, but his feet rested solidly on the ground.  
  
Gimli emerged again, carrying-- The reception table from the front hall? He placed in front of Frodo and frowned.  
  
"Gimli, I don't think--" Whack! Whack! Gimli knocked the decorative clawed feet off the small table briskly.  
  
He straightened it and looked at Frodo expectantly. "And the height, Frodo? I'm no writer so you'll have to show me."  
  
Wordlessly, Frodo inclined his hand a span or so above his lap. Gimli squinted as he sighted from Frodo's hand to the table. Whack-whack-whack!  
  
He righted it and moved it before Frodo. "There," he said. "Now, Mr. Baggins, you may write in comfort."  
  
Frodo looked at the lengths and scraps of wood scattered about him. "I thank you, Gimli, it is most thoughtful of you. But now we will be short a chair and a table."  
  
Gimli waved one hand dismissively. "No matter. The Steward can send replacements." He glanced up at the Sun as a crystal-clear call floated across the City. "Is that the horns of Rohan I hear?"  
  
Éomer and the Riders of Rohan were due to take their leave today, and they did not want to miss it. Frodo collected Sam and hurried to the palace to watch.  
  
Pippin was there already, attired in his Gondorian garb, before ranks of the éored captains, shields and helms polished until they glittered in the light. They stood, legs apart, as if in the saddle even now.  
  
Aragorn stepped forward and sent them forth with blessings of love and friendship, clasping arms with Eomer. Merry stood behind and to Éomer's left, in the armor of a squire of Rohan. Golden hair caught the sun as fiercely as the armour and Frodo realized that Éowyn stood nearly hidden at Éomer's side. Frodo studied her face. She resided at the Houses of Healing, and he had seen and spoken to her there. Merry had told him of the Witch King's death, and of the fearful wound dealt by this fair maiden.  
  
After one particularly trying wound-dressing, Frodo had thought to collect himself by sitting in the Houses' garden for a time, which was fragrant with early flowers. The healers of Gondor knew well that pleasing and beauteous surroundings soothed the mind and enhanced the healing of the body. From the gate, he had seen Éowyn sitting quietly next to a bush of white roses, with a heavy blue mantle draped across her lap. As he watched, she bent her head, and the slender hands gripped the mantle in silent struggle. Rather than intrude on a private moment, Frodo withdrew, but not without wondering what troubled her mind.  
  
Now as she watched the conversation between her brother and Aragorn, wrapped in the same blue mantle, her eyes shone, her lips softly curved, and he marveled at the change.  
  
After the Riders withdrew, the gathered folk began to disperse, Sam and Pippin joining the other Companions within the great Hall. As Frodo was about to follow, he heard someone call his name and turning, saw Faramir. "Captain," he greeted him with a small bow.  
  
Faramir smiled, bowing back. "You look well, Frodo. Improved from when I saw you in the Houses of Healing."  
  
"The healers and cooks of Minas Tirith are generous with their skills."  
  
"And are your accommodations to your liking? Such matters are the responsibility of the Steward."  
  
"I have no complaints," Frodo replied, "but I am afraid the furniture has taken some damage from our presence. Gimli kindly altered a chair and table for me."  
  
Faramir laughed, a rich, rolling sound that echoed across the courtyard. "A table and a chair is the least that Gondor owes you, Frodo. Come, sit with me for a moment," he said, gesturing to one of the benches that edged the courtyard. "So, we have come back into the sunshine, to laugh at old griefs."  
  
"And we may celebrate new beginnings," Frodo added. "The lady Éowyn looked beautiful today."  
  
Faramir nodded, his face lighting. "The eyes of the Ringbearer are as keen as ever, I see," he replied. "Even when the Shadow lay heavy upon her, I thought her the fairest thing I had ever seen."  
  
"I believe that you, Faramir, have lifted the grief from her heart."  
  
"If I did, it was only justly so, for her presence meant much to me when we were waiting for the end." He glanced at Frodo. "I thought of you on that day, when the Eagle flew low over the walls of Gondor, and I hoped you lived. You did not expect to."  
  
Frodo looked up at the blue sky, and the wind in that high place drove tears into his eyes. He blinked them away, and cleared his throat. "Yet I did. Against all hope or expectation."  
  
Faramir nodded and they sat in silence for a moment. "When Aragorn called me back, the White City had fallen. The Gates were broken, my father was dead, rubble and the bodies of my friends choked the streets. Aragorn went to the Black Gate, and I could not. My father's proud lineage had no representative before the walls of Mordor. I fought an interior battle, then, against despair and angry pride. I believe it was harder than facing the Nazgûl." He paused, his keen grey eyes catching Frodo's. "How have you truly fared, Frodo? For if my battle was difficult, yours was surely unimaginable."  
  
Frodo met his gaze evenly. "I am not sure, Faramir. I do not know how I should feel. Well, in fact, I do. I should feel as joyous as Merry and Pippin, or exultant as Sam was when we heard the minstrel sing "Nine-fingered Frodo." I look inside myself for feelings and they are there, but dimmed, as if I am muffled in wool. There is a melancholy over all that I can neither deny nor defy."  
  
Faramir got up, walked a few steps away, and stood staring down at the streets that wound down from the palace of Minas Tirith. "Perhaps you should not defy it. I spoke of the White City. It will be re-built, magnificent once more, but not as the City I knew. That City is gone forever and can never be recovered. I grieved for it, Frodo. To not grieve for it would dishonor what it was. And only when the grieving was over, was I able to take joy in the new."  
  
Frodo took a deep breath. "I see. Yet I knew already that I was broken. It is the re-building that I have doubts of."  
  
"Nay, my friend, nay. What you may become I cannot see, and I do not think even our King or Mithrandir can. But the metamorphosis has begun."  
  
Frodo looked down at his feet. "And what of those memories that will not lie quiet?"  
  
Faramir frowned. "Take them apart, bit by bit, stone by stone. Rob them of their power over you." He looked away, his face remote. "Did you know the Towers of Cirith Ungol and Minas Morgul had fallen? News reached me of it. Someday, that land will green and birds will sing. And when night- blooming jasmine grows where the Ithil Tower once stood, evil will have truly passed away forever."  
  
As he listened to Faramir, Frodo could see the loathsome Tower of the Moon, broken into rubble. _Faramir would have his men carry away the cursed stones, and dump them into some deep crevice. He would let the cleansed land lie fallow, until hardy herbs and flowering weeds began to sprout. Then he would plant trees_. Frodo remembered the flowering vine reverently twined about the brow of the fallen king. _It could be done_. He felt a surge of hope. _It would be_.  
  
When Frodo rejoined the others, he was deep in thought. Sam looked at him curiously, but did not question him. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and after supper, he picked up his book. His book, he thought of it now, though he had possessed it only three days. He caressed the blue leather cover, but did not open it. _Pull it apart, bit by bit_. He traced a circle on the book's cover with his finger, wondering if he dared face Minas Morgul, and what came after.  
  
_Here now, lad, you mustn't stop now. What then_? He imagined Bilbo, sitting across from him in the flickering firelight. _And then, my boy? What happened then_?  
  
###

**Minas Morgul  
**  
When first I gazed upon the Tower of the Dead, the Ring over my heart awoke. The corpse-pale light, the shining walls, they called to it as irresistibly as maggot-ridden remains call to the beasts of the field. I was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to walk down the green-lit road and pass under the proud arch, and become one with its cold beauty. _Minas Morgul, Minas Morgul_, the words slyly whispered in my head. Power dwelt here, power ready to be taken by the Ring.  
  
I realized I was clutching it through the cloth of my shirt and it was hot in my hand. I forced my hand away, and focused rather desperately upon Sméagol. The greenish light lit his face and glowed within his eyes. Did he feel the horrid fascination that filled me? He was cowering in fear, pulling frantically at our cloaks.  
  
Sam took my hand and together we forced our reluctant feet to move. Step by step, we advanced down the shining road of death toward the bridge that gleamed like polished bone. _Like a bare old bone_, I remember thinking wildly.  
  
Sméagol lurched through a gap in the low wall to the side of the road, and Sam turned to follow. I hesitated and the revolving chamber atop the deadly tower flashed around, catching and trapping my sight. A high and fell sound came to my ears and echoed, before resolving into words. I dropped Sam's hand and took a step toward the bridge.  
  
_For a couple 'o pins, it says_, and grins, _I'll eat thee, too, and gnaw thy shins_. I cocked my head listening, and took two more steps.  
  
_A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet! I'll try my teeth on thee now_. I was rushing helplessly down the road with the answer in my head. _Me now! Me now_!  
  
The song left filth on my tongue, yet I could not stop my lurching feet. _We've a mind to dine on thee now_!  
  
Power here, for the taking. The Ring's lust was burning in me. _Larn him! Warn him_! I threw myself down on the very threshold of the bridge, and Sam caught me in his arms. Sméagol was huddled up, moaning, fighting the Tower's call, as well. I felt Sam's heart beating fiercely. I clutched at him, at the warm solidity of his flesh and felt the Tower's song diminish.  
  
"Hold up, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Come back! Not that way. Gollum says not and for once, I agree with him."  
  
The Ring resisted me, but I managed to push it and the Tower back, and stumble with Sam to the gap in the wall. The glow of the road began almost immediately to fade, and the tugging from the Tower ceased. I was gasping for breath as if I had run far, and my vision kept swimming in and out.  
  
The Ring suddenly seemed colder and far heavier than it had at any point previously, as if it sought to punish me for my rebellion. Sam was little better off, and we struggled upward for some unimaginable time until we could finally go no further, and cast ourselves down to rest. Gollum was agitated, coming close to lay hands upon my clothing, and attempted to pull me upright.  
  
"I must rest," I whispered. My eyes found the walls of Minas Morgul, directly across the narrow valley from us. The glowing road leading to the walls, the fuming stream, the flowers that smelled like sweet decay--my mind slid sideways, and I remembered walking in the woods and seeing a strange plant.  
  
Bilbo called it a pitcher plant, and it resembled one, even to the sweet- smelling fluid in the bulbous base. He bade me look closer and I saw tiny insects struggling within. They had been attracted by the fluid, but were drawn inexorably downward to die and be digested. Now I was looking into a cold green pitcher plant that had nearly eaten me, and nausea overcame me, bitter bile rising in my throat.  
  
Gollum's words gradually penetrated my horror. "Not here, no! Eyes can see us. Come away! Climb, climb!"  
  
I struggled upright but it was too late. Red fire flashed in Mordor, and Minas Morgul answered. Thunder and blue lightening lashed the sky, and we fell dumb, frozen with fear. A shivering scream followed the lightening, piercing the black sky before subsiding. But whatever communication passed there had naught to do with us. That much I sensed in the shrilling cries of the Nazgûl.  
  
Before I could whisper reassurance to Sam, I heard a gathering, growling noise. And from the mouth of Minas Morgul, an army came forth. They were clothed all in black, but as they marched, I saw a maddened Moon painted on their helms and shields, with a face of death.  
  
This could only be the sign of the Morgul-Lord, a mockery of the once-fair Tower he had conquered and broken.  
  
No sooner had the thought passed through my mind than I became suddenly aware of his emerging power. I raised my shrinking eyes upward, and there rested a foul flying beast on a tall rampart, mounted by a rider in black. The Ring flared into heat and life against my skin. It recognized the being as I did.  
  
Did I see with my eyes the helm crowned with spikes that he wore? The empty eyes were ravening and hungry. Or was I only remembering what I had seen at Weathertop?  
  
Death, the eyes promised. I dug my fingers into the rocks I lay upon, trying to pull my eyes and mind from his black form. I tightened my grip, but a thread of pain leaped across the chasm, and drew me close, for his joy was in pain. He dealt it gladly, for his own sake and that of the one he served. Pain, and death, until the world should end.  
  
_Whom did he serve_? The Ring was coiled in my mind like a serpent ready to strike, and I could not answer. _Whom would he serve_? The command to put the Ring on lashed into me. I saw the Morgul-Lord bowing his head, dropping his mace at my feet. His evil was a drag upon my soul, but even worse was the horrible despair, pregnant with pride, that I sensed within him. Had he truly received his heart's desire, bound to linger here in Middle-earth but able to taste no pleasures but those of death and pain?  
  
_That, too, you could end. Only you could release him and the others, release them, at last, to their mortal fate. Put on the Ring! Put on the Ring, and end it_! Begone! I commanded him. Pass beyond this world, unhappy shade, and receive the gift of the One!  
  
_Put on the Ring_! I realized one hand was creeping up my chest, and managed to slow it. How old was the Morgul-Lord? How many ages had seen his power and malice grow? _You alone can end it_. The Ring's command intensified and my hand touched the chain at my neck.  
  
I forced my hand downward and it went, but slowly. I could not win a battle with him—not yet. This I knew deep in my soul, where I could balance the measure of my strength against his, and knew I fell short. _Not yet...but soon perhaps_.  
  
The Morgul-Lord's head turned about, disquieted. Something stirred in his valley that was not of his making. _Put on the Ring_! My hand jerked, and the fingers brushed a rounded shape within the pocket of my weskit. Sweet Elvish songs played in my memory, and the tension drained from me. The Phial of Galadriel. Light was in her hair, wisdom in her face, and her eyes were kind. I lost myself in thoughts of her, and all else faded.  
  
The beast leaped from the rampart, and the Wraith passed over us like a dark wind. And he was gone, gone ahead of his army toward Ithilien, toward Faramir, whom we had so recently left. And still the army came on. The numbers were—

###  
  
Frodo paused a moment, interrupting the smooth flow of memories from his head to the page. The army had seemed to roll by forever, like a nightmarish flood. He doubted that was properly descriptive, though. Each company had a hundred, and he and Sam could see ten companies before they disappeared around the bend. If it took a company 10 minutes to march that distance, and companies passed for two hours, then...  
  
The ink on the quill thickened while he thought. The number problem seemed far removed from he, Frodo Baggins, sitting in this pleasant candle-lit room, scented by the flowering vine growing beneath the window. It was a matter of horror and fear for that other Frodo, the one who was trapped in Minas Morgul and did not yet know how the story would end.  
  
_Twelve thousands_, he thought triumphantly. _At least twelve thousands_. He was filling in the words when he heard a step behind him.  
  
He looked over his shoulder to see Sam standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. "What are you doing, Frodo?" he asked. "It's late."  
  
Frodo looked out the window. The night's dark was unbroken by moonlight and no sound disturbed the streets. "I lost track of the time, Sam."  
  
Sam came to stand next to him. "You should rest. What is it you're writing about?"  
  
Frodo looked down at the long passage he had written. The heady feeling of losing himself effortlessly within the story faded, leaving him suddenly aware of his fatigue. He rubbed at a cramp in his right hand, and stretched, straightening his shoulders and back. "I was making some notes about Minas Morgul."  
  
"Minas Morgul?" Sam was aghast. "But why? Good riddance to bad rubbish, say I." He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled the vale now.  
  
Frodo hesitated, unsure why he had felt compelled to write it down. "I don't know. It was much in my mind after speaking with Faramir this afternoon, and I wanted to put down the details before—" He stopped. The words on his lips were "before they faded," but he did not know if Sam would understand.  
  
Instead, he picked up his quill to add a few small details to a drawing, turning the book sideways. Sam looked over his shoulder and shuddered. "Brrr! No wonder you couldn't sleep with thoughts like that in your head!" he said, in concern. Frodo was finishing a quick sketch of the walls and valley of Minas Tirith, complete with a miniature Fell Beast and rider. "Leave that and let me make you some tea and a snack, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"I want to finish this."  
  
Sam knelt down by his chair in appeal. "Mr. Frodo, you're tired. It'll be day soon, you must rest."  
  
Frodo's gaze was drawn to his small illustration. The Rider's unseen face occupied an area no larger than a fingernail, yet he had the oddest feeling that the ink-dot eyes behind the miniscule helm were staring at him.  
  
_You no longer trouble this unhappy world_, he told it, _for you are come to your doom_. He dipped his pen to add a final sentence:  
  
"Unbeknownst to us, the Morgul-King would be slain by Éowyn and Merry a mere five days later at the Battle of the Pelennor, before the walls of Minas Tirith." _There, your story is complete_.  
  
The candle's flame flickered suddenly, and he shivered. In its unsteady light, the simple lines of his drawing acquired new depth. The Rider looked at him still, undismayed by Frodo's words. _Does the evil men do live after them_? A sudden draft stole the warmth from his flesh.  
  
Sam picked up his hand and chafed it between his own. "What did you say, master? Something about evil? You're chilled, sitting here like this." He jumped up and disappeared into the next room, returning quickly with a grey elf-cloak in his hands. He flung it around Frodo and fastened the brooch at his throat. "It's not right to be sitting up at this hour, thinking of evil days. You'll make yourself ill. Surely this writing could be finished tomorrow, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
Frodo relaxed a little in the familiar warmth of the cloak. Sam's cloak, he knew, suffused with the telltale odors of pipe and leather, and the comforting scent of his skin. He looked into Sam's concerned face with affection. "You're right, of course, dear Sam. I feel better, though, for writing it down. Lighter."  
  
Sam looked uncomprehending but did not argue. "Let me fix you something warm to drink, master."  
  
Frodo yawned. "That's not necessary. I will be able to sleep now."  
  
He stood up and staggered a little, his legs stiff from the long vigil. Sam steadied him and put one arm around his shoulders, and so helped him to his cot.

/

/

/TBC

/

/

/

/

/

/Author's note: Many readers will no doubt notice that the Morgul-lord is riding a _fell beast,_ instead of a horse in this scene! My apologies. My powers of invention failed me here, despite Tolkien's explicit wording. I knew that other Nazgul are riding fell beasts when this scene takes place. I knew that the Witch King is riding a fell beast once he leaves the City gates, so why isn't he riding one now? And doesn't he terrorize the other horses in the army? Is the fell beast riding in a wagon somewhere? Part of me suspected that the dear old Professor had done this merely so that the Witch King could pause and terrorize Frodo. At any rate, please forgive me, but I decided to simplify the scene a little and so just stuck WiKi on a fell beast.


	6. The Market of Minas Tirith

**Chapter 6: The Market of Minas Tirith**

_But it is the way of my people to use light words at such times and say less than they mean. We fear to say too much. -Merry, The Return of the King_

The next day dawned bright and clear. Frodo yawned during breakfast and was suddenly aware of the other hobbits watching him, subtly weighing his movements and expression.

"Tired, Frodo?" Merry asked. "Perhaps you should give the writing a rest for today. I do not think Bilbo will truly expect a diary when we see him again. And even if you did give it to him, he will still want to hear the tale and set it down his own way."

Frodo fixed them with a stern look. "Do I find myself again at the mercy of a Conspiracy?" Sam flushed, and looked down at the floor, the very picture of a hobbit-lad caught stealing apples.

"Sam, look at your face! I should have blamed you for my pranks at Bag End all those years ago! I could look innocent enough, but what I really needed was someone else who looked guilty," Pippin said impishly. "Frodo, he didn't say a word, but you didn't really think you could be talking and stumbling around in the middle of the night and not wake us, did you?"

Frodo looked unconvinced, and Pippin hurried on, "Well, not without waking Merry, at any rate."

Frodo threw up his hands in mock-surrender. "Very well, very well, my dear friends and cousins! You need say no more." _They are united in this, I see. I did stay up far later than I intended. Odd how enjoyable it felt to write so on a subject I would normally consider unpleasant or painful._

Merry and Sam consulted each other with a glance. "Then you will join us in our walk to the Markets today" Merry asked.

Frodo laughed. "Indeed. Shall I say it again, or will you take my word on it"

"Some sun and fresh air will do you good, Mr. Frodo" Sam said.

The City was abuzz with the re-opening of the Great Market of Minas Tirith. People filled the streets, and all seemed to be walking down, to the gates and outside. The sun was high, and the air clear, and the hobbits joined the stream of walkers. There was a holiday feeling, and talk and snatches of song filled the air. If Frodo closed his eyes, almost he could imagine himself at a Shire-fair, hearing high children's voices, and their parent's scolding, women gossiping and laughing. The thought brought a sharp pang of homesickness, and along with it wonderment that he could be homesick_. I never thought to see the Shire again, and now I am through the dark water and into the light. Almost I can savor the feeling, because for the first time, I can anticipate its relief. _

When they came to the gate at last, the sight of the Market stopped them. It stretched across the Pelennor, before the City walls, and to one side of the great road. The tents, stalls, and wagons were a multitude of bright colors, with flags and bunting draped over every available surface. The noise of it was immense, far outmatching a market day in the Shire. Thousands of voices haggling, yelling, singing, and shouting at passers-by.

Sam's eyes were huge as he tried to see everywhere at once. "I never dreamed there were this many Big People in the world"

Frodo laughed. "Nor did I, but we should have guessed it after exploring the City. Perhaps all those empty houses will soon be full again"

"Something smells good," Pippin said, sniffing appreciatively.

"Which something do you mean, Pip?" Frodo asked. "I smell roasting meat, cider, pastry, ale and sweets all at once."

"It's wonderful!" Pippin said. "I want to try all of them. Look over there." Pip gestured to where an old woman with a black headscarf stood beside her laden wagon. Before her was a plank set across two barrels, and on the plank was an assortment of golden pastries.

"Filled rolls!" Sam said.

Frodo looked at him, laughing. "Ah, Pippin you have hit upon one of Sam's weaknesses: a good pastry. I remember Bilbo remarking on it. It might have been cause for some difficulties once or twice."

"Bilbo is quite fond of pastry himself," Merry agreed.

Sam pushed forward until he stood before the old woman. "Good morrow, madam. What's in those rolls"

She looked at him curiously, but answered politely enough. "Meat and onions here, and dried fruits in these: apple and plum. And I have fresh eggs, butter, and some good salt meat for sale. There ain't anyone here with fresher, I vow."

The others had caught up to him and also heard her words. Pippin's eyes lit up. "Fruit rolls, Merry, did you hear that? I haven't had anything like that in ever so long."

"How much for a roll, Missus?" Merry asked.

She winked at him. "Me name's Melathe, and for you handsome boys, only a copper apiece."

Pippin looked stunned. "I don't have any money" He looked around in appeal. "Merry, Frodo, do you have any money"

Frodo shook his head. "I lost all of mine long ago. And what fools we are, to come to a market without money!" In truth, it did not bother him that much. He was content to look and walk, enjoying the sight of the Big People around him. These people were more like those of the Shire or of Bree than any he had encountered so far, he realized. Not so high and noble as Aragorn and Faramir, nor so grand: simple folk with simple concerns, who now had the chance to live out their small lives in peace.

Sam lifted a small pouch out of his shirt, and opened it. "That's not so, Mr. Frodo, not meaning to contradict you. I found your money scattered in your pack back in Rivendell, and I've kept it safe for you. It's Shire coinage, though."

The dame frowned. "Shire coins? What manner of money be that?"

Merry said cheerfully, "I don't think Shire money will help, Sam. Pippin, didn't you ever pick up your pay"

"I get paid?" Pippin said. He looked astonished.

Merry brought out a small purse, stamped with a horse in full gallop. "What of the coins of Rohan, good woman? I was told they match the weight of Gondor."

She nodded, looking relieved. "That they do, young one. The horse-masters' money spends fine in Gondor." Merry handed her four small coppers and she scrutinized them closely before nodding. All smiles, she pushed the board of pastries closer, and they each picked one.

Pippin immediately bit into his, and the juices smeared onto his face. "Mmmmm"

Melathe watched him, smiling. "I like to see a lad eat hearty, of my wares. Surely you little ones ain't here alone? Or are you with a show? That, I'd like to see."

Pippin's mouth fell open, releasing a shower of crumbs. "A show? What do you mean? Oh"

Sam looked as if he were not sure whether to be offended for Frodo's sake, or his own. Frodo knew he took pride in the solid respectability of the Gamgees, and to be taken for traveling players, who were commonly thought no better than vagabonds or thieves! Frodo was amused by the mistake, and Pippin and Merry, Frodo noticed, were downright delighted.

Sam said"Ma'am, we're no part of no traveling show. Why, Mr. Frodo here is—"

Frodo touched his arm, "Wait, Sam." Sam subsided, and Frodo continued"Madam, we're Halflings who have traveled from over the Mountains to Rohan and Gondor. Now we are visiting for a time in Minas Tirith. In our own land, everyone is our size."

The woman looked amazed. "Halflings! Well, I never. You say there's a whole land of little people over the mountains? Why, it's like something out of a story"

"Thank you, madam, but I assure you it is quite true."

"Oh, I believe you, I believe you" she said. "I did wonder how that one there" she pointed to Pippin"got that garb, truth to tell. The Guards, they don't take kindly to any making fun o' them. They'd have that off you in a quick minute if you hadn't a right to it."

Pippin smoothed down his tunic, and grinned. "Lord Denethor took my oath himself"

The woman exclaimed again. "That song about the Halfling prince is true, then? And think I told my youngest it was just a fairy story. Those City folks got too much empty time, I said, thinking up fancies like that. Princes at my stall!" She turned thoughtful. "I'm thinking perhaps I should give you your money back, uh, my lords. I didn't know who you were before."

Merry took over. "Not at all, my good Melathe. Our land is a quiet, homey place, where good food is greatly prized. Were you to come to the Shire, folk would stand in line to taste these delicious rolls. No, good dame, keep that money. You deserve it."

She wiped her hands on her apron, and blushed. "Why, thank you, sir. You're as generous and fair-spoken as a prince should be, I vow"

They said farewell to her, and she curtsied awkwardly. When they had put some distance between themselves and her stall, Pippin burst out laughing. "The look on your face when she curtsied, Sam! I thought you would choke."

"It's not funny, Mr. Pippin" Sam said. "A plain honest Gamgee's got no right to be taking on airs to good folk. Princes indeed! Mr. Merry ought to be ashamed of himself."

"We're not going to be able to correct the misperceptions of the entire Market, Sam. There's too many of them: too many misperceptions and too many Big People. We paid a fair price" Merry pointed out.

"Besides, Sam, think how much she'll enjoy telling everyone what Merry said about her cooking" Pippin added. "She'll probably sell everything she has before the day is out!"

Sam frowned, but had to admit the truth of this, and the four went on companionably. The Market stalls and booths stretched on and on, seemingly endlessly. They stopped to watch a minstrel sing "The King and the Steward." The minstrel accompanied himself on a small lute, singing of Aragorn's healing of Faramir. Pippin was much taken with the song, his eyes fixed on the minstrel's face.

"Faramir!" The minstrel cried, speaking as Aragorn. "Thy people have need of thee! Thy king has need of thee! Depart the dark places where the shadows lie deep. Return to the White City, beloved of it and by thee!"

The audience shifted and muttered, stirred by the ringing lyrics. "Faramir," whispered the people around them. A stout woman near them wiped tears from her eyes with her veil. Frodo watched her circumspectly, seeing the much-mended dress, and worn face. Just a common woman of the City, who likely had only seen Faramir from afar, as he traveled back and forth through the City, yet to her he was the heart of the City, her own hero to take pride in, born and bred here. Likely she had known of him since his birth, and followed the growth of the boy into the man, wept when the news came of Boromir's death, and looked forward to Faramir's wedding. Faramir had not only led his men, but been a symbol for the people, as well. All this devotion and expectation upon Faramir, and he had borne it so well, so honorably. Frodo was filled with new respect for the quiet, far-seeing Man.

Several verses about the King's coronation and the gifting of Ilthilien concluded the song. The minstrel finished with a final clear chord, and looked up expectantly. The crowd stamped their feet and whistled, throwing coins of copper and silver.

"Hurrah for Faramir!" Pippin cried. He seized two coins from Merry's purse and tossed them onto the growing pile. Merry took the purse back firmly.

Pippin grinned, unrepentant, eyes sparkling. "Merry, it was worth it! And nearly all of it was true"

The minstrel was taking bows and gathering his wages. A faint unease awoke in Frodo. What was the next song to be? "The Market of Gondor!" a hearty man cried. The crowd took up the chant. "The Market of Gondor!" The minstrel sipped some wine and began a rollicking tune about the wares to be found in the Market like no other. Frodo was soon lost in the long lists of wares, but some of them appeared to have some additional meaning to the crowd, who laughed and cheered. "And take a slice from that cut loaf, for it will not be missed!"

Pippin grew impatient, so the hobbits began threading through the press of people until they were free.

They turned into a long causeway of booths and stalls, and passed a booth selling ribbons and other lovers' tokens. "Pretties for your lady-love, will soften the hardest heart" called the stall-keeper. He pointed to Sam. "You there, boy! Get a ribbon for your mother or your girl! Show how much you love her"

Sam cast a longing look at the wares, and then dropped his eyes and shook his head.

Frodo and the others stopped. "Go on, Sam" Frodo urged. "Have a look if you like." He picked up a dark blue ribbon adorned with glass beads. "This is lovely." Sam spared barely a glance for the ribbon in Frodo's hand. He reached out one finger to gently stroke a silver pin, cunningly shaped into a small rose.

Merry grinned and nudged Frodo. "I think me Sam has found what he wants, Frodo."

Frodo was surprised, and looked more closely at the small pin. That was no token to be given casually. Was there some girl Sam fancied? He remembered that the Cotton family was close to the Gamgees and they had several daughters. Odd that he had never even considered that before, but of course, Sam must marry, nearly all hobbits married. _I will not, though, as changed and damaged by the Quest as I am._ He felt inexplicably saddened. _And Sam may not find that it is not as easy to go back as he believes; we are all much changed_. _But no matter whether or not Sam marries, he shall never lack for a home at Bag End._

The merchant started up, and slapped Sam's hand smartly. "Ho, boy, hands off! That is too rich for the likes of you" Sam jerked his hand back, a shamed flush staining his cheeks.

Pippin flung back his cloak, and addressed the man. "We are not boys, good sir, but Halflings, the companions of the King."

The merchant gaped at the tree of Gondor, the silver threads glinting in the sunlight. Merry bowed. "We are pleased to make your acquaintance, merchant."

The man stared hard at each of them, lastly at Frodo with the ribbon still in his outstretched hand. The merchant's small deep-set eyes widened. "Is it Nine-Fingered Frodo then" he exclaimed. Frodo said nothing, but laid the ribbon down and tucked his hand beneath his cloak, stepped away from the table.

The man's eyes gleamed. "Forgive my rude speech, young sirs. I meant no offense. Here, look at the rose, master." Sam nodded shortly, and the merchant boldly took his arm, pressing the trinket into the his hand. "Feel the quality, sir, the weight! It is of dwarf make. Flawless, is it not? Only ten silvers."

"Ten!" Merry's sense of offense was renewed. "Outrageous! One would be more than fair."

"Master Halfling, I pray you have pity on a poor man with a family to support. Eight silvers, but no less"

Sam backed away from the table so hastily he stumbled. He grabbed Frodo's arm, and hissed urgently"Mr. Frodo, stop him! I don't have any silvers"

"My dear Sam, I would pour silvers into your hands, if you would but accept it."

"Two silvers, but only because it is of dwarf make, and we are dear friends with a dwarf" Merry continued briskly with the haggling.

The merchant seemed extraordinarily nonplussed by this statement, and ostentatiously examined the pin again. "My aged eyes fail! Woe is me" he cried. "This is not the pin of dwarf make. This pin is of elven make, thus even more valuable than ten silvers. But as started, so done; seven silvers for the companions of our good King."

"I couldn't take that, Mr. Frodo" Sam said. "I was just doin' my job. It wouldn't be right to expect more than the satisfaction of giving good service with a fair wage. Why, my old gaffer'd box my ears for it."

Merry turned innocently to Pippin. "Pip, have you seen our companion, the elf-Prince of Mirkwood? I believe he planned to meet us."

The merchant paled under his tan.

Frodo chuckled softly. "Wait, until you see the results of Merry's bargaining. That pin is of neither dwarf nor elven make." It seemed to Frodo as he watched the pin moving through the air in the merchant's hand, that a picture came to him of an old man, smiling with pride as he removed the rose from a basin.

Sam looked shocked. "It's not"

"It is well-made, nonetheless, Sam," Frodo murmured. His eyes were tired suddenly, as he had just awoken. "Well-made, and beautiful."

"Three silvers for the Halfling prince!" The merchant blurted. "Now that I think on it, I would be honored beyond my due that my wares should travel to so far and exotic a land."

"Done!" Merry said, and paid him.

He picked it up and handed it to Sam. Sam looked from the pin to the others' smiling faces. "I can't—"

Frodo clapped his shoulder. "I absolutely insist, my dear Sam, and I will have no argument. Do I make myself plain"

"Don't you owe Sam a year's back wages anyway, Frodo?" Merry asked innocently.

Frodo poked Merry in the shoulder. "No interference in my affairs, thank you, Master Brandybuck." Sam heard none of the banter, staring with shining eyes at the small pin in his calloused hand.

They continued on their way in good cheer, but soon noted a change in the people around them. Where before persons had looked at them and then quickly away, as men will at sight of a cripple or other misfortunate soul, now they stared freely, pointing and whispering. Pippin and Merry took no notice, but Frodo pulled his cloak forward until it shrouded him from shoulders to knees. Sam, watching his master anxiously, noted the care with which he kept his bandaged hand hidden. Despite this precaution, soon the bolder merchants were calling out to them.

"Here, ernil a perianntha"

"Nine-fingered one"

"A special price for the companions of King Elessar"

"Try me ale, little masters, one free mug for you"

Everywhere Frodo looked, smiling faces were beaming at him, mugs were raised, and goods pressed forward. He lowered his head, and hunched his shoulders, to escape the weight of their collective gazes. The air grew warm as the sun sailed higher, and the noise and the smells of the Market pressed upon him uncomfortably.

"Just how far are you planning on walking, Mr. Merry?" Sam complained, in a good-natured tone of voice. "Not all o' us has legs as long as yours. And it's fair warmed up, too."

Merry turned and took in Sam and Frodo's demeanor in a glance, reading, as well, the unspoken appeal in Sam's look. "Sam is right, Pippin" he said. "This is almost too much to take in. Let's don't go further in, but skirt around the edges and back to the gate."

They did so, and found relief from the crowds of people on the outskirts of the great Market, where the stalls were placed farther apart, some looking toward the Road and some to the Market's center. In these quiet spaces, people who had traveled far to the market had room to rest and take refreshment, and children ran about under their mothers' watchful eyes. These Big People paid scant attention to four small hobbits.

Frodo put his hood back from his face, and joined in the talk, merry again. The hobbits bought a joint of roast mutton, and mugs of fine nut-brown ale, and fell to with appetite, sitting in the shade of a great wagon. When they finished, and began walking again to the gate, they stopped for new-baked crusty bread, paired with slices of sharp yellow cheese, and cider. A few stalls on, and they sampled apples, painted with honey and roasted on a stick, and a style of drink made from a tart yellow fruit none of them had ever seen before. In this manner, they passed slowly back toward the City, arriving later than expected, but quite full and contented.

At the house of white stone were Legolas and Gimli, preparing to leave. "There you are!" Gimli cried. "We wondered where you were. You are off the mark ahead of us once again, it seems: eating your way through Gondor's famous Market."

Legolas laughed. "Join us on another foray, friends. The City celebrates today; the return of those who fled, and the re-opening of the Market produce hope and joy in all hearts."

"Even in that of a grim dwarf" Gimli said.

Merry and Pippin were much enamored of the idea and begged Frodo and Sam to join them, but Frodo refused, and Sam echoed him.

Merry hesitated at the door, and Frodo pushed him out, laughing. "Your appetite has grown to match your height, I see! But I could not eat another bite, and my room calls sweeter than any ale. Sam and I will rest, and be all the fresher for supper."

TBC

/Author's Note: "To take a slice off a cut loaf"

From the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue: to intrigue, especially with a married woman, for a slice from a cut loaf is not missed.


	7. Of Dwarves and Stairs

**Chapter 7: Of Dwarves and Stairs**

_"I am not going into details: the whips and the filth and stench and all that; it does not bear remembering." -Pippin, The Two Towers_

The house of white stone seemed strangely quiet without Merry, Pippin, Gimli and Legolas. Sam and Frodo rested on their cots, and Sam soon slept, but Frodo found it difficult to still his mind. To the music of Sam's snores, his thoughts turned to his Blue Book, as he had begun to call it in his own mind. He had reached the pass of Minas Morgul in his writing, and knew far worse lay ahead. _Do I have the strength to continue this?_

It was one thing to dabble at writing, using it to stretch and exercise his wounded hand, recording the early days of the journey, when his task had still seemed achievable. The cost would be his life, he had known that, but he had thought he had accepted it. Until Cirith Ungol. Now he was faced with confronting those events baldly, and reliving that horror.

And yet… He had felt true release after writing of Minas Morgul, as if once the events were transferred to the page, they no longer had a hold on his heart and soul. Frodo slipped from the room without waking Sam, and made his way to the front of the house. The Book lay where he had left it, beneath the window on the table Gimli had altered. He sharpened a quill mechanically, opened his ink and took a deep breath. He began writing, haltingly at first, but gained speed as he continued.

**The Pass of Cirith Ungol**

After eluding Minas Morgul and the Witch-King, there remained the dizzyingly long ascent of the stairs to the pass. Stairs, Smeagol called them, but truly more like a ladder carved into the rock, terrifyingly vertical in some places. The ascent took a day and a night, not that we could easily tell when day arrived. As many others will no doubt record, that was the period when Sauron covered the skies by some evil device and blocked out the sun. Day was a brownish-gray twilight with one able to see only fifty paces or so. Night was impenetrable.

I was aware of a growing pressure from the Ring as we neared the borders of Mordor. It did not merely weigh heavier on me. Now it hung about my neck, heavy as lead, and far larger than I actually knew it to be. It dangled and shifted as we climbed, and it seemed a hand-span across, if not more, which might have seemed ludicrous were it not so terrifying. The small links of its silver chain ground into the flesh of my neck, and I tried to shift it to ease the growing discomfort. Repeatedly and in vain, did I envision the tiny circle of gold, perfectly sized for my finger. I knew this was the Ring's shape. I knew were I to put it on, it would be hobbit-sized, and not the gigantic thing It seemed. No sooner would I firmly assert this, than my mind would wander and the sensation of the hideously grown Ring would return.

We were resting at the top of the straight stair before I finally realized what was occurring: I was attempting to impose my will upon It and failing miserably. The thought chilled me. Were my defenses against It crumbling so fast? I did not dare pursue that question, lest my thoughts give It some further hold upon me. Instead, I took the opportunity to touch the Ring through my shirt, impressing on my fatigued mind its size and shape. _Shadows may be distorted and enlarged_, I told myself. _And yet, the objects that create them are solid and unchanging_. I knew this did not wholly apply to the dangerous object around my neck, but I had not the strength to continue asserting the Ring's true size in the face of its illusions. All I could do was repeat the truth, and attempt to disconnect myself from the vision, as if it were a painting on the wall and nothing to do with me.

I will not fully describe our route. It is enough for my present purpose to note that we climbed the Straight and Winding Stair, and reached a space where we could rest. Sam and I ate a sparse meal, and talked a little. The nightmarish sensation of the Ring dissipated as we talked. Even this bare semblance of normality was dear to me, and strengthening. Sam's chatter about the old tales cheered me as little else could have. For an instant, it was as if we were back in the Shire, speaking about nothing in particular, teasing back and forth. Sitting before a warm fire, eating, drinking and then replenishing one's plate and cup and eating some more.

The despair that filled me when the Morgul army set forth finally lifted. Even if the Ring's destruction could not stop all the evil of the Dark Lord's war, and Gondor and even Lorien were laid to waste, still some beauty would yet survive. Somewhere there would be green lands, where flowers came forth in spring, people and hobbits would have children and tell them tales, and those children would grow and have children. Some would survive. And I still hoped that Sam might be saved to return someday to the Shire. I had none for myself, but hope for Sam still surfaced at odd moments, sturdy and undying.

We noted Smeagol's absence after we ate, but I knew as Sam could not, how Smeagol's desire and lust for the Ring dominated his soul. He would be back, and he would not willingly permit the Ring to be given over to Sauron. For then he would have no chance of regaining his Precious. I thought idly that if that worst of all events came to pass, it was likely Smeagol would find nothing more to live for. I trusted my insights into Smeagol's heart, and did not worry overmuch at his absence. In this journey, I had had to give myself over to Fate and Destiny, and Smeagol was part of that complicated coil. Sam and I slept while we could, believing the worst of the Stairs behind us.

I do not remember what I dreamed of, before descending into Torech Ungol. I have turned it over in my mind, wondering if there was some warning my sleeping mind dismissed, but all is dark. I awakened slowly, aware of Smeagol and Sam squabbling about something. There was a strange tingling in my mind, almost a ringing. I was half-asleep but the feeling was compelling. As if some great chance were being missed, or some doom averted by inches.

Fair or foul? I could not say. That was unusual enough that I cast anxiously about, seeking to find its source. The Ring was quiet; the call came not from it. My eyes were still closed, and Sam finished speaking with Smeagol and sought to rouse me, little realizing that I was already awake. I fixed my eyes on Smeagol and greeted him. The ringing through my mind intensified. He replied that he had done nothing, that he was a sneak.

_Sneak!_ The word struck me as ill-favored. I stared at him, and saw his anger and satisfaction. "Sneak" he was, in some bitter hurtful way, but part of him yet wished that it was not so. It was to that part I spoke. "Don't take names to yourself, Smeagol. It's unwise, whether they are true or false."

Smeagol answered that Master Samwise had given him the name. Again, I was aware of the discrepancy between his sullen speech and his emotions. Wild amusement at the word, regret at its aptness, and anger at his own regret.

Sam was annoyed and defensive when I questioned him. "I said I was sorry but I soon shan't be."

I was watching Smeagol, and his head jerked involuntarily when he heard this. _Sam would soon be sorry, very sorry_. I could see the words in his mind.

The odd compulsion left me abruptly and I was no nearer understanding what had happened or what I should have done. Was it a doom averted or a final redemption missed? I was so uncertain, blundering my way through my Quest, and never once feeling as if the road were clear before me.

One thing seemed plain, that Smeagol had taken the word 'sneak' to heart in a way I did not like. "Can we find the rest of the way by ourselves?" I asked him. "You have done what you promised, and you're free: free to go back to food and rest, wherever you wish to go, except to servants of the Enemy."

But Smeagol refused, and led us on.

Now perhaps I can better understand what happened that day. Sam saw Smeagol 'pawing' at me, as he put it. Did the horror of Torech Ungol overcome Smeagol for an instant, and had he come to me for comfort? Did he wish that he were not as he was, and consider not taking us through that tunnel? I believe so, but I cannot fault Sam for his words, given Smeagol's history. Perhaps if I had been wiser or quicker, and not so worn by the Ring, I would have understood and could have prevented what inevitably followed. But such speculation is fruitless.

In any event, repentance in a creature such as Gollum would likely be a fragile thing, easily destroyed or reasoned away by his more-practiced tendency toward evil. It is not likely to have persevered under any circumstances, let alone under the temptation of the Ring. That is what I believe. That is what I must believe.

**Torech Ungol _or_**

**Shelob's Lair**

That was what he intended to write. Frodo was deeply engrossed in the scene on the page, and having come this far, was determined to push through until he finished the horror of Shelob. But as he began lettering the next heading, a stirring at his shoulder raised the hair on the back of his neck. Something whispered, "Frodo" directly into his ear. Frodo recoiled violently and jumped up, knocking his chair over and striking Pippin's chin with his shoulder.

Frodo rounded on him. "Drat it, Pippin!" he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Why are you sneaking up on me and whispering in my ear?"

Pippin fingered his chin, looking injured. "I did not sneak up on you, Frodo. I said, Frodo, aren't you coming, several times. Didn't I, Merry?"

Frodo looked over at Merry, who nodded.

"Oh." Frodo examined the book. The last word on the page ended in a fine long scrawl, but the page was not torn. He set down his blunted quill, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. To be so rudely torn from his immersion in Cirith Ungol… "My apologies, Pippin, for my hasty words."

"Accepted, Frodo." Pippin peered down at the book again. "Tor—something. That reminds me of the last word in the dwarvish book in Moria."

"Yes, Pippin. I am not mortally wounded, but I do seem to be driven to make errors when you're around."

"Grumpy, isn't he, Merry?" Pippin remarked. "He sounds rather like Bilbo did when he was working."

Merry took Frodo's quill and deftly sharpened it with his knife. "Bilbo made errors when you were around, too, Pip. Remember when you wanted to see what he was doing so you stepped up on the back of his chair? Just as he was getting up?"

"I do not remember, Merry," Pippin said, sounding a bit sulky. "Given that I was an infant at the time."

"No infant could've tipped over both the chair and Bilbo the way you did. Frodo, are you coming to dinner?"

Frodo took the newly sharpened quill from Merry's hand, and looked from it to the page and back again. He was of the mind to say no, because he wanted to finish the passage he had started. How long would that take? Should he miss dinner to spend the evening locked in remembrance? Perhaps if he could complete it quickly… He searched his mind, feeling uncharacteristically confused. The words had slipped away from him, and now he felt only fear and revulsion at the thought of Torech Ungol. Perhaps it would be best to take some time away and allow the words to return as they would. _But would they?_ He suppressed a flicker of panic at the thought, and wiped the quill and re-corked the inkbottle. "Yes, I am coming."

The Companions dined at the palace that night. A farewell feast was being held for the emissaries from Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Frodo listened to their news with interest; Brand and Dain had both been killed in the fighting, but their sons had withstood the siege of Mordor's forces. The stories of the battle of Dale brought Bilbo to Frodo's mind, and his adventures in that land.

When the last course of the feast was taken away, musicians circulated playing songs of Erebor and all were free to wander or listen or smoke. Gandalf and Gimli withdrew to one of the great window seats and filled their pipes. Gandalf blew a smoke ring and it whirled twice around his head and out the window. Gimli laughed and exhaled a long plume of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. "Come and sit, Frodo."

"Thank you," Frodo replied. He took a pipe from an inside pocket, and filled it from the pouch that Gimli companionably offered. "Watching you, Gandalf, I am reminded again of Bilbo. Many evenings he sat and blew smoke rings and remembered yours to me. He will be saddened to learn of Dain's death, and that of Dori and Nori."

Gimli sighed gustily. "Great heart, Dain had. May I fight so well past my two-hundred-fiftieth year."

"I should call Dain's fall a heavy loss," Gandalf said, "if it was not a wonder rather that in his great age he could still wield his axe as mightily as they say that he did, standing over the body of King Brand before the Gate of Erebor until the darkness fell."

"Another chapter, perhaps, for Bilbo's book," Gimli said. "Or your own, Frodo."

"My scribblings do not yet qualify for the name," Frodo said. "But I thank you for it. Bilbo's original tale has grown so. One step leads to another, as he says, and somehow or another one finishes one battle at the Lonely Mountain and gets swept into a wholly different one in Mordor!"

Gandalf opened his eyes. "But, my dear hobbit, those battles were not wholly different. Did you think the renown of Bilbo merely from the finding of the Ring? No, his role in Smaug's demise and as peacemaker after the Battle of the Five Armies dealt a harsh blow to Sauron's plans for the North."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked. "Smaug was in league with the Dark Lord?"

"Nay, that could not be. Dragons did not make alliances," Gimli said.

"Master dwarf, that is true, as far as it goes. But you underestimate Sauron if you believe he was not aware of the dragon and had hopes for his use. Vain and prideful, Smaug might have been, but Sauron was ever skilled at persuading others to do as he wished. At any rate, Smaug would have needed little persuading to set the North aflame. With an army of orcs under his wings, few could have stood before him. Even Elrond would be hard-pressed."

Frodo stared at him in amazement. "I never imagined such a fearful thing!"

"Ah, yes," Gandalf gave Frodo a penetrating look from under his bushy eyebrows. "When you think of the great Battle of the Pelennor, do not forget the Battles in Dale and the valor of Durin's Folk. Think what might have been. Dragon-fire and savage swords in Eriador, night in Rivendell. There might be no Queen in Gondor. We might now hope to return from the victory here only to ruin and ash. But that has been averted—because I met Thorin Oakenshield one evening on the edge of spring in Bree. A chance-meeting, as we say in Middle-earth."

Gimli puffed on his pipe, and said, "Do you mean to say you did not know he was there, Gandalf? I've heard the story, of course, but those telling it fancy you found Thorin purposefully."

Gandalf laughed. "I had too many cares to look for one dwarf, however worthy, Gimli. No, our meeting was ordered, as Elrond would say, but not by my own purpose." He blew a smoke ring that turned blue and spun lazily away over the heads of the other guests. "And that is enough dark talk for tonight, I believe."

Frodo inhaled deeply of the fragrant pipe-smoke. His worry and distress earlier in the evening seemed overwrought in this peaceful setting. _There is no need to rush through the events, as if I must write it all immediately. Perhaps I have been pushing a bit, and should let well enough alone for now._ He pursed his lips to blow a smoke ring, but an eddy of wind from the window caught it as it left his lips and it dissolved into mere wisps of blue vapor.

TBC

_author's note: these quotes of Gandalf are preserved in Appendix A: Part III: Durin's Folk._


	8. Into the Dark

**Chapter 8: Into the Dark**

_"You won't (forget), if you talk about them, Mr. Frodo."_

_-Samwise, The Return of the King_

The next morning after breakfast, Frodo paged through his book. The ending scrawl loomed like a wall between his thoughts and what should come next. Words, normally so clear and simple, danced maddeningly out of reach. _Perhaps tomorrow._ Somehow several days passed before he picked it up again. He was occupied with other matters, he told himself.

Then one morning, he unexpectedly awoke very early. A fearsome dream lingered in his mind. _I could not remember who I was. I could not remember my name. I went to the mirror and looked into it. And I did not recognize myself. It was the face of a stranger._

Frodo rolled over in the simple cot. The meaning was inescapable. If he continued to deny events, painful as they might be, then he denied himself any chance of understanding them. He heard the others stirring, and sat up slowly. This afternoon, he would write.

When his opportunity came, he approached his table as warily as he had the Black Gate, senses tingling and buzzing with alarm. Sam had left to go marketing, believing Frodo napped, and Merry and Pippin were absent. A carafe of water and a mug sat on the table, unvaryingly refreshed by Sam each morning and afternoon. Frodo sat and slowly mixed ink and sharpened his quill. Were those his hands that shook so, without any hint of their customary nimbleness? His mouth tasted dry and foul, and he drank thirstily. He was not as thirsty as he had been in… His hand tightened involuntarily on the mug, and he set it down, lest he break it. Gently. _Gently._

**24 May 1419 (S.R.) **

**Cirith Ungol**

It is far easier to write that one intends to uncover the roots of one's failure than it is to do so. Yet having come so far, do I fail again in this recounting? Through hesitation, fear, and weakness?

Memory is more transient than I imagined. Once I believed nothing could ever erase the events of Cirith Ungol from my mind. Now I am aware of how simple it would be to let them fade, beyond conscious recall, if not beyond the recall of dreams. For too long, I've pushed the memories away, loath to disturb my fragile peace. But my dreams speak true. To do so means to excise part of myself, a part that once lost, might never be regained. Once I sat in the sunlight and read _The Lay of Lúthien _to Bilbo. I believed myself past the hurts of my youth. I have lived to see that for mere youthful ignorance. Where there is life and love and thought, there will be pain.

I would like to believe that such pains are proportionate to one's capacity for understanding and wisdom. If so, I reject the gift offered to me, if I do not strive to understand the meaning and pattern of it all. I cannot do that. Some accommodation between what is past and myself must be reached.

I find comfort in knowing the proper names of things and setting them into their place. The tunnel that Sméagol led Sam and I into was Torech Ungol, or Shelob's Lair. So have I found it marked on maps here in Minas Tirith. It was foul beyond belief, with many dark, maze-like passages. I felt the peril of the place, but in a distant way.

The horror of the Witch King was slow to fade from my mind. Part of me had wanted to confront him, and recognized him with the Ring's power. Was this another sign of my weakening will? Here was no such answering tug, and I was perversely reassured. Whatever this place was, it was a refuge from Ring temptation. Now I realize that Shelob, like Smaug, was evil, independent of Sauron yet serving his purposes.

Only when _She_ confronted us, was the full extent of our peril revealed. We could not out-run the monster. _I did not wish for my death, or Sam's._ Only one course of action was left. Shaking and trembling though I was, I advanced with the Phial and Sting, and _She_ was dismayed and fled. The light of the Star of Eärendil, light of the Silmaril bound upon his brow. The light that once emanated from the Two Trees, back in the forgotten Ages of the World. That potent force, consumed by Shelob's parent in sheer malice, was Her downfall. Was that meant in the songs of the One? I see the tangling and twisting of fate, and cannot but wonder how much of this Quest was accomplished by my will.

I digress. Using Sting's keen edge, I cut the webbing that blocked the way out, and ran into the pass. I was filled with joy at our escape. And after that, nothingness.

I awoke in the foul claws of orcs. Yet that was not immediately important. Uppermost in my mind was the knowledge of what was missing. Part of me was horrified that this should be so, but that part was small and distant compared to the immediate impact of my loss.

Before I opened my eyes, before I felt the pain in my body, I felt the emptiness in my soul, a dreadful loss that I longed to remedy. I tried to push back the desire, but my will was cold and weak, like the river ice of late winter, when it begins to crack and break. Such ice is so treacherous that even with caution, one risked falling. Into the nothingness of cold black water, shut away from light and air.

Somehow…somewhere…the Ring was gone. Yet not destroyed…I knew it still existed. I could feel the horrible sweetness of its evil in my soul. I no longer possessed it, but I was hideously aware of it.

I tried to reconstruct my shattered memories. Cirith Ungol. Running. And then, nothing, until waking with emptiness.

Orcs were around me, and I realized I had been captured. I blamed Sméagol. My faithful Sam slain, and I captured. I nearly laughed at the irony of it, that I had come to Mordor to be captured by mere orcs.

I returned restlessly to the Ring's fate. Had Sauron recovered it? That did not feel right. Surely, if Sauron had taken the Ring from me, I would be aware of it. What more exquisite torment could there be? To show me the Ring on his finger…to know it was gone from me forever…. I shivered involuntarily.

My eyes jerked open when a burning drink was forced down my throat. The orcs surrounding me laughed and hooted with glee. They ripped my clothes off me. My elven cloak, the mithril shirt, my pack, everything I had carried for so long, lost.

Where was the Ring? Had one of the orcs taken it, heedless of its power? I searched the faces of those around me but could feel no link to the Ring of Power. The orcs snarled with greed over the mail shirt.

I was still attempting to read their twisted faces when they tied my hands. The largest grabbed my hair in a painful grip and forced my face up while he growled to the others. The Ring was not far away, and not in the hands of Sauron.

Stars, had I dropped it? In the confusion of being captured had I dropped the Ruling Ring like some careless tween? I collapsed to the ground, and the orc snapped his whip across my trembling legs.

The one called Shagrat roared and dragged me to my feet. He spoke in the Common tongue, "What else do you have, little spy? Tell me, or I'll roast you over a slow fire!"

I stared back at him blankly. Spy? I was no spy. I closed my eyes and felt my way carefully through the emptiness. I had not been sent to spy. No, I was unsure of almost everything but that. My mission had been to destroy…. I could not remember. _If only I had the Ring in my possession again, everything would be clear!_

Shagrat repeated himself several times, increasingly angrier, and then threw me to the ground. The pain in my shoulder and back echoed in my neck. I stared up and saw only blackness.

Galadriel had given me the light of Eärendil. In the tunnel, I gave the phial to Sam. What happened then? Was Sam alive or dead?

Shagrat seized my hair and lifted my head. He repeated several more questions, but in my desperation, I could not formulate answers. I stared into his face intently, looking for some mark or sign. "Do you have It?" I wondered. "Do you possess It now?" He released my hair, and my head struck the stone floor, bringing tears of pain to my eyes.

"Broken," he snarled. "Himself will get answers out of him."

Galadriel had borne an elven-ring, and I had been able to speak to her in my mind. Could I not do the same now and so find the One?

Had Sméagol recovered it? I tried to see him in my mind, and failed utterly. There was no answer to my questing thought. I was distracted by the howling of the orcs. They wanted sport.

They grabbed my face, and poured another drink down my throat. It was foul and made me retch repeatedly, until only bloody bile came up. The orcs watched, laughing. Then they closed in. Two of them picked me up and threw me on my face, and brutal fingers probed between my buttocks. I screamed into the stones of the courtyard.

My body's agony was counterpoint to the agony in my mind: the aching loss, the questions that would not leave me. Sméagol did not have the Ring, nor these orcs, nor Sauron. Who then?

Satisfied at last that I concealed nothing, the orcs threw me into a room high in the tower. I still could not pierce the fog in my mind. Where was the Ring? What had happened to Sam? If they had taken me alive, would they not have done the same for him? Was he somewhere close by, in torment? Did Sam know where the Ring had gone? Perhaps the One had abandoned me, as both Gandalf and Bilbo had warned me it could.

I pictured Sam in my mind, and for just an instant, I saw him clearly; a sturdy, curly-haired hobbit, with an open, sunny smile. Then I felt a tug, evil but familiar to me. Horror washed through me. _Sam_ possessed the One. He had betrayed me and taken it.

I tried to shut Sam out, but this new knowledge would not be denied. A cord of fire ran from the empty place in my mind due west. If I were free, I could follow him blindfolded. I was on my feet and pulling desperately at the trapdoor of my prison in an instant. I could not open it.

I walked west as far as the chamber would allow and sank to my knees, shaking. I managed to not claw mindlessly at the walls. Conflicting feelings shook me. Fury melded with grief. How blind I had been! Did he realize what he had done? How could he betray me? What had I brought him to?

I did not realize I was crying until tears splashed down my cheeks and my breath choked in hoarse sobs. I could not bear it. Sam was worse than dead. I would not bear it. I saw the dark brooding water beneath the ice, felt it cracking under my feet. Sam and the Ring were both lost to me. The ice broke, and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

_

* * *

_

The next dayFrodo sat curled in an oversized chair. Gandalf and Aragorn were deep in consultation at the Palace. The others were about the City, and Frodo and Sam were alone: Sam occupied with some menial task and Frodo, deep in thought. The emotions evoked from the previous day's writing were with him still. Anger, fury, hatred; he shivered from the force of them. _Fool! After writing of Minas Morgul, you felt cleansed, so you believed that would happen for Cirith Ungol as well. But it has not. And the worst of all lies ahead, that strangles your voice, of which you cannot even speak…_

A bright flash caught his eye. Sam was sitting on a small stool before the window, bent over something in his lap. His arm went up and down, and the needle in his hand sparkled gaily in the sunlight. Frodo seized the offered distraction gladly.

"What is it that you are sewing, Sam?" Frodo asked.

Sam dipped his fingers in a bowl and stroked down the thread with the yellowish substance. "I'm replacing the seams along the bottom of my pack."

"What do you put on your thread?"

"Lard, o' course, otherwise the seam won't be waterproof. See, as I pull the stitch through, the lard seals it tight. When I finish, this pack will be as good as new." He finished a final stitch, then bit the thread off with a sharp snap. He turned the pack over in his hands, and inspected it closely, picking up a soft cloth to buff the leather here and there.

"Mr. Frodo, what do you think?" he said, handing it over.

The leather was supple in Frodo's hands; the scratches of wear barely distinguishable on the smooth brown surface. The new seams had been picked in so expertly they were scarcely identifiable. He brought it to his nose. The leather fragrance filled his nose with a rich fresh scent, warm as butter in the mouth.

"Sam, you're a marvel," he said, and handed it back over. "If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe it the same pack."

Sam beamed. "Thank you, sir. It did clean better than I thought. I nearly forgot. I finished the other one, too." He walked over to his cot and rummaged around. "Now, what do you think of this?" He handed the item to Frodo and stood smiling, waiting.

Frodo realized that Sam had dropped his food bag. It was a simple drawstring pouch, made of waterproofed leather, and could be carried inside a backpack or tied to the exterior. It had been expertly cleaned and oiled, but it was still the same, and instantly recognizable. It was the only item he owned that not been taken or destroyed in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. The sight of it filled his eyes to the exclusion of all else.

Sam seemed to realize something was amiss. "The color is darker but that always happens if the leather has been soaked."

"Not at all," Frodo managed. "It looks like new. Actually, better than new." It had been grimy when he found it in the Tower, among the rags.

Sam's voice came from far away, and the bright sunlight dimmed. "I think I'm ready for tea. I'm that happy to be finished; I thought the skin of my hands would come off before some of that dirt. Would you like some tea, sir?"

Frodo nodded without looking up. Sam got up, swung the kettle out from the fireplace, and carefully picked it up with a rag wrapped around his hand. He brought it to the table and filled the teapot. The homey noises were comforting. Now Sam would be inspecting cups and saucers, making sure they were clean enough to suit him. Since the City's populace had returned, liveried maids came to clean and wash-up every morning, but they could not do everything. That would have required servants living in, which the Companions opposed unanimously. Instead, they took the work in turns, and Sam had grave doubts about some of the Companions' skill. Gimli, for example.

Had Gimli rinsed the cups last, when they drank an after-luncheon aperitif? Frodo could not remember. Sam would be pouring milk into the cup, then steaming tea, sweetened with honey. Frodo straightened, but kept his gaze down. Sam drew up a small table, and a stool for himself. "Here's your tea, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo wrapped his hands about the cup for warmth, and sipped slowly. He took his turbulent emotions in a firmer grip, and finally raised his eyes. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam flinched, as if from a blow. "What's wrong?" he cried out. "What have I done?"

Frodo closed his eyes. _What has he seen in my face, that I was unable to hide? Some residue of the fury I felt in that cursed place?_ "Nothing! Nothing to do with you, I swear it."

"That look—I've seen it before, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo dropped his eyes and took a hasty gulp of tea, heat burning his throat.

Sam continued: "In that place where I found you, that Tower. I remember your face."

Frodo hesitated, unsure of what to say. "I remember, too," he said, in a low voice.

Long-suppressed words burst from Sam. "What's bringing _this_ up? Those notes? I don't understand why you want to write about these things, Mr. Frodo. Can't you just forget it? Wouldn't that be best?"

Frodo felt a flash of anger. _Does he think I have not considered that?_ "I cannot."

Sam groped for words. "Sure you can, just don't talk about it…or think on it. Gandalf could help, maybe."

Frodo stood up and moved to the sideboard, adding more honey to his tea with a shaking hand. _Why can I not do as he asks, as he and Merry and Pippin have done? Why must I perpetually be different, the odd one? The hobbit that cannot easily forget past grief or horror in the joys of the present? Or why can I not be like Bilbo and not mind my difference? I am no fit heir for him._ Aloud, he said, in a voice that carried some of his inner frustration, "I cannot, Sam."

Sam sounded accusing to his hypersensitive ears. "But you haven't tried proper, Mr. Frodo. I know you could."

_Do as they do, be as they are. The only caveat is that you may have to give up some of that which makes you what you are: Frodo Baggins. True, at times, it has been a misery being Frodo Baggins, but will you now give up his ways and thoughts? To be cheerful? Perhaps you will not even miss old Frodo after you bury him._

He stared down into his tea, and tried arguing. _ Bilbo did find a way to live with his difference, and yet be happy._

The retort was swift and devastating. _But you are not Bilbo, are you?_

Tears stung his eyes. The teacup slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a crash.

"Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo, can't I help somehow?"

Frodo was unable to speak, his emotions confused and conflicted, and overlain with horror from the Tower. And after… How would he face what came after? He picked up his cloak and moved to the doorway, and tilted his face to the sunlight.

"Leave me be for now, Sam."

"Master," Sam cried, a swiftly dwindling figure behind him. "Master!"

TBC


	9. The Red Chamber

**Chapter 9: The Red Chamber**

_"__I am weary, and full of grief, and afraid. But I have a deed to do, or to attempt, before I too am slain." --Frodo, The Two Towers_

Frodo walked as swiftly as he could to the great exterior walls of Minas Tirith: the smooth and still unbroken expanse of glittering black stone, erected by some wizardry none now living knew. The wind was fierce here; it caught his cloak and nearly pulled it from his shoulders. There were soldiers, but they paid him little mind; he was a familiar sight, though usually Sam was with him.

The thought of Sam brought a stab of pain. _Perhaps he is right, and I am being foolish. I should not write of it, think of it, or speak of it._

He thought of the passage he had written last night, and discovered that he could not wish that he had not written it._ Is the only choice before me that of denying the War and myself with it, or becoming morbidly obsessed with it, to the exclusion of all else? I do not accept that. There is a grim satisfaction in setting the details down for my own eyes. _

The wind gusted, and he took a step back from its force. Despite the sun's warmth, there was a bite in it, which made him think of cold mountains, and the icy waters of Kheled-zarum. He took a deep breath, and the wind gusted again, driving relentlessly through his clothing, lifting his hair from his head. He held his arms out to it, uncaring of the soldiers watching, and his sleeves belled out, while a stray eddy swirled around his ankles, flapping his breeches. No part of him was untouched by the wind, and as his clothing settled back into place, it felt cool and stiff, as if he'd stripped off all the old garments and put on new. He felt cleansed, and now the question he had posed sounded ridiculous: a child's plaint against the unfairness of the world. _I will not accept that. Some wounds do not heal. But some do, and I will not find my way by refusing to acknowledge the task before me. _

When he returned to the house, it was empty. He sat down next to the hearth and waited. He did not wait long. Sam came through the door, his hair disheveled and cheeks pink from the wind. He stopped dead in the doorway when he saw Frodo, and his cheeks turned pinker yet. "Mr. Frodo— " he began.

Frodo interrupted him. "Sam, I apologize for my skittishness and bad temper. Will you excuse me?"

"Sir, it's not for you to be apologizing to me," Sam said.

"But I do, nonetheless, and would be much relieved in my mind if you would."

"Well, I do then," Sam said. "But only if you'll forgive me for questioning what you do. I've no right to, and that's a fact."

"You have more than earned the right to say whatever you wish to me, Sam, dear friend," Frodo said. "But let us speak no more of it for now." That was all, and they walked down to luncheon together as if nothing had changed. But something had, and Frodo's heart was heavy with it. If Sam could not understand why he was driven to try to make sense of his experiences in this way, what chance was there that any other hobbit would?

The next day, he took up his pen in the quiet of the house. Sam looked unhappy, but said nothing. A shock of pain arced across the back of his hand as he dipped the quill. _That will never do_. He was determined to finish the Tower today and have done with it. He flexed his hand several times until the spasm eased, and closed his eyes to summon his strength. A word, a thought and he could see himself, lying in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. _Don't think, just write. Just write. _

**The Red Chamber**

After being thrown into the uppermost chamber, I lapsed briefly into unconsciousness. I clearly remember the dream I had: a disguised version of the truth I could not face.

_In my dream, I wander alone through the darkened corridors of Bag End. The window at the end of the hall is shattered and I step carefully to avoid cutting my feet. I come to my room and cry out in dismay. It is been torn apart; the headboard broken, and the mattress slashed. Feathers cover everything like a white shroud. My precious desk, treasured gift from Bilbo, is cloven in two, as from an axe blow, and the papers shredded. Burned books are in the fireplace. I am not outraged or angry, but filled with grief. _

_As I stand amidst the destruction, a gleam catches my eye. The mirror has been removed from the headboard and thrown against the wall. The pieces left in the frame reflect a splintered image of the floor and wall. I crouch down, and look into it. I reach out to the broken frame, and see my hand reflected. But it isn't my hand… The mirror hand is tanned brown and strong with calluses on the fingers. I know this hand, have seen and touched it more times than I can count. The mirror hand is holding a golden ring. I stare at it with hopelessness and despair. The scene breaks up; the splintering fragments spin me around. And I awaken. _

Consciousness returned with agonizing slowness. It was dark, and I did not know where I was. Something was before my eyes but I could not make out what it was, the vague rectangular shapes making no sense to my befuddled head. After a time, I gave it up and lapsed back into thick sleep.

The harsh squeal of un-oiled hinges awakened me again. Motion to my left. the _clunk _of pottery striking boards, and then a hard slam. I tried to turn my head and sharp stabbing pain radiated down my neck and across my shoulders. I froze and stared up into the darkness, looking for anything familiar, but there was nothing.

My eyes slowly began to differentiate shapes from the dimness. The rectangular shapes I had earlier seen resolved themselves into the blocks of a stone wall. Hard boards were under my body. I considered these things for a long while, my mind slow and hazy, each thought taking an eternity to form.

I gradually perceived more of the space around me. I was lying in some sort of circular chamber. A red lamp hung from the high ceiling, casting a faint bloody glow. I took a deep breath and the muscles of my shoulders and sides clenched into tightly drawn bands of agony. I turned onto my back, and froze, breathing shallowly, waiting for the pain to ease. When it finally did, I massaged my shoulders with one hand. _Why do I hurt so? And where am I?_ I felt tentatively around my neck, locating a swelling on the lower left side. The briefest touch sent a burning, tingling pain along my neck. My stomach turned uneasily. _What has happened?_

I had been ill. The sour taste in my mouth, the lingering nausea in my stomach, and these horrible cramping pains in my shoulders and sides were familiar to me, though it had been a long while since I was foolish enough to imbibe strong spirits to such excess.

I sat up, suppressing a groan at the painful spasms in my shoulders and ribs. I was naked. The effort of sitting broke out a sweat on my forehead.Grit from the floor ground into my legs and buttocks, producing a light stinging pain. I tried brushing it off, and found lines of welts and cuts hidden under the dirt. I traced them with one finger, disbelieving. Whip marks? How could that be? I shook my head to clear it, and the room began swooping lazily about me, receding and approaching and spinning, making me clutch the wall desperately, gasping.

When my head finally cleared, I looked around me. A large pottery bowl was sitting by a trapdoor, filled with water. Beside it were a withered apple and a hard rind of bread. I drank the water greedily. I was so thirsty that it tasted like the finest well water from the Shire. My stomach cramped fiercely, and I breathed deeply, until my insides decided to accept the water. The bread and apple are good, and the minutia of eating occupies me so that I did not have to think. It was enough to be able to eat and drink without retching.

When I finished and looked around, I noticed a narrow window slit in one wall. Immediately, I was filled with the desire to see outside, longing for a familiar view. I was in prison, clearly enough, but why? I pulled myself up and stumbled a step, unable to suppress a cry at the pull of abused muscles. I must _see. _ My shoulders and sides were agony, each breath a stabbing pain. My vision splintered, and I clutched the wall, fighting to remain conscious._ Is there any part of me that does not hurt?_ I inched along the perimeter of the wall. I had nearly reached the window when the trapdoor was thrown back. An orc climbed into the room.

"What are you doing?" it growled. Its speech was rough but recognizable. "Taking a bleedin' stroll? Get back over there and lie quiet-like!" It pointed to the rough pallet.

I was terrified. Every horrible story I had heard about orcs leapt into my mind. _What had I done_? How had this happened? How did quiet Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, wake up and find himself in the foul claws of orcs?

The orc came closer until I smelt the stench of his body. "I said, move!" he snarled, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the pallet. I cast a longing glance at the window-slit. _To see…_

A sound like rocks grinding together startles me, and I realized the orc was laughing. It—no, I could see the genitalia beneath the rough loincloth, _he_ gave my arm a shake. "Want to look out the winder, do you, rat? Want a look at the countryside?" He lifted me to the rough wall. And I saw…

Utter devastation. Ashy plains that were blackened and dry. No life, nothing green. Ahead was a mountain. It stood alone, belching fumes and poisons into the air. I swept my eyes around desperately looking for something, anything familiar. In the distance stood a tiny black tower. My eyes were drawn to it, and my heart pounded fiercely. It was horrible, though I could not say why. A fractured vision surfaced in my mind, from a dream, perhaps? _A blackened hand, missing a finger, which held a golden ring. _

Cold fear washed over me, and I felt as if something had reached out, seeking, seeking… I turned away and closed my eyes, trembling violently. The orc made that grinding noise again, and gave me a rough shake, like a child scolding a kitten. His grip shifted and the swelling on my neck erupted into agony, and I screamed. _It hurts, let go, please no…_

Startled, he dropped me onto the floor. Tears trickled down my face, and another orc-head appeared at the trap.

"What the flippin' 'ell are you doing to it?" it roared. "You trying to get us all strung up by our guts?"

The orc standing over me turned away. "I was just showing the rat the nice view," he said sulkily.

"Garn! Let it alone and get back down here!" the other snarled.

It disappeared, and the one standing seized my arm and dragged me back to the pallet. Just when I thought he would leave, he turned back and kicked me hard in the stomach. I shrank into a tiny ball, flopping soundlessly. I couldn't draw a single breath, and I saw his mouth stretched wide in an ugly grin. No breath. _Elbereth, help me…_ He savored my pain like a fine wine, licking his black lips. _I can't breathe…_ He loped over to the trap, and climbed down. The bolt snicked coldly into place.

My lungs finally expanded with a whistling gasp that awakened new cramps in my shoulders and sides. My neck throbbed still, though the worst had eased when he dropped me. Renewed nausea made me choke. I took a deep breath but it was no use. The blow to my stomach started me retching again, and the little I'd eaten and drunk came back up, and more still, until I wanted to die, anything to stop the misery. When the spasms eased, I kept still, breathing shallowly, and trying to suppress sobs. Tears trickled down my face until one of the rags was wet with them. I was so weary. I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind my lids pulsed with red terror, and I jerked them open, certain the orc was upon me again. But the chamber was empty. I tried reaching into my memories. What had happened? Why this emptiness in my memory?

_Sam and I, standing side-by-side. A light, glimmering, soft, that illuminates a nightmarish horror. Bilbo's sword, Sting, spider's bane. And I doubted Bilbo sometimes when he spoke of the spiders in Mirkwood! How much worse are the spiders of Mordor… Mordor! _

My eyes flew open and everything suddenly made terrible sense. _The Ring_! My hand touched only bare skin at my neck. _The Ring, where is the Ring?_ It was not there.

Stunned and disbelieving, my hand kept searching, patting my throat, and checking the back of my neck. I found the abrasion the weight of its chain had started on my neck, but not the Ring. Another dream-like image filled my mind. _A sturdy hobbit-hand, tanned and calloused, holding a ring_. I pushed the image away with a surge of revulsion. _An imaginary vision, nothing more. Nothing more!_

I realized the significance of my nakedness. I was captured, stripped, searched and the Ring found. With the thought came dim images of a courtyard, an orc with a whip. The Ring must have been found immediately, since I had no memories of the finding. I remembered the cruel laughter and jokes as the orcs searched my body. I looked at my thighs, and saw streaks of blood caked with dirt, all the confirmation I needed. I scrubbed my thighs with a rag, as if I could wipe away the past hours along with my blood, shuddering convulsively. _The claws, the horrible claws!_

I had failed. All my fears, all my struggles, and what had I accomplished? Naught but to deliever the Ring to Sauron. Boromir was right. I was a fool. I had brought Sam to his death with my dependence. _I should not even think of Sam. _Not think how I had repaid his caring and love. _I must not think of Sam_! I felt as if I teetered on the edge of an abyss, and shrank onto the pallet in despair.

Orc-voices echoed below, yelling hoarsely in their foul language. I fancied I could distinguish the voices of my guards. Weapons and armor clamored, interspersed with calls and curses. A horn blew. I pressed my ear to the bare boards, listening. It did not sound like an exercise. Below the higher pitched tones of striking metal were the dull thuds of weapons biting into flesh and bone, cries of pain.

_Did they fight over the Ring?_ The battle sounds moved away from me, and I began to hear cries coming from the courtyard outside the window, as well. Perhaps the curse of thieves had struck them, greed and mistrust. So might robbers fall out, and violently slaughter each other over their ill-gotten gains. It was a chill thought that they quarreled over my plunder and spoils. Perhaps a certain golden Ring influenced them. No orc could stand against Sauron, but did they realize that? Or perhaps the Ring used one coldly to return to its true Master. _He_ would take it with no more effort than swatting a fly. And then…long years of torment for myself and the unlucky orc, for as long as our minds could stand it.

After a final violent crescendo, the tower fell silent. I drank the small amount of water remaining in my bowl, and tried to rest. The silence was worse than the sounds of fighting. _Was everyone dead?_

I didn't feel as if the Ring had been claimed, and something inside whispered that I would know. Perhaps one of the orcs was a loyalist and escaped to Sauron with it. If they were all dead or gone, then I would die of thirst. It would not be too painful. _I wonder how long it will take?_ I was thirsty again already, my tongue and throat dry and parched.

Some time later, I heard voices once again, jerking me from my doze. The orcs were not all dead. Would they bother keeping me alive? I thought not. I could not imagine this turn of events had been according to the wishes of the Dark Lord. Why leave me here to talk? One of them would probably come to cut my throat.

How much worse could it be than the stab-wound I had taken before? I felt along my throat pensively, where the big pulse throbbed. How close I was to death, and yet my body struggled on, lungs gasping, heart beating.

There was nothing to do but wait. And that was when I heard singing. Like a fever dream, the sweet voice slipped into my head, Sam singing in the garden. I joined in, my raspy voice straining. No matter if it is a fever dream._ It would be a mercy to die singing. _

The trap was thrown back again. The orc was back with a whip. I raised my arm to protect my face, and there was a cry and Sam was the orc. Sam was there, and he had saved me. And the Ring.

/TBC


	10. The Plains of Gorgoroth

**Chapter 10: The Plains of Gorgoroth**

_No listener would have guessed from their words that they had suffered cruelly, and been in dire peril, going without hope towards torment and death... -The Two Towers_

Frodo sat staring at the words he had just written. _Sam had saved the Ring… And myself. Oh, Sam. How is it that I have shut you out?_

He looked out from the fine house, over the gleaming streets, filled with pedestrians. There was a low hum of conversation, and smiles but little outright laughter. Only big people were in sight, and the facades of the tall houses reduced the sky to a strip of blue. He looked up and felt dizzy, as if the narrow bit of sky were falling toward him. He put a hand up to his head to still the ache, and gazed street-ward again. Few trees or bushes were visible, since they were hidden away in the houses' interior courtyards. The doors and windows were rectangular, with sharp, precise corners. He felt a stab of longing for friendly round windows and round doors.

Gandalf rounded the corner just then, and greeted him with a smile. "Ah, there you are, Frodo. Aragorn has been given the sign he awaited."

Frodo met his eyes, and then looked back out over the City. "Then he will give me his blessing to go?"

Gandalf's smile faded. "Two days ago, you were content to wait yet awhile at Aragorn's behest. Why has your desire changed?"

"The Shire is my home, and Bilbo is waiting. I long for peace, Gandalf, and the small-doings of quiet people."

Gandalf sat down on the bench beside the doorstep. "Peace cannot be found in any land, no matter how quiet and well-ordered, if it is not in your heart, Frodo."

Frodo's hands tightened on his pipe. "That is true. Gandalf, I cannot seem to close my mind and shut out the things that have happened. My body heals, but I am not the hobbit I was. Am I mad?"

"Nay, Frodo, you are not mad. I daresay you might be happier if you were, without the knowledge of the evil memories and wounds you carry. You have been catapulted far ahead of the rest of your race, and you must make allowances, for them and for yourself."

"Ever you speak in riddles, old friend. I do not understand."

Gandalf's eyes were filled with pity. Small and forlorn the hobbit seemed, with the waning sun red upon his face. "Hobbits are innocent, Frodo, and very young indeed in this world. Their cares are taken up with simple pleasures, and their sorrows few. That is a blessing and a joy, and I love them for it. Not every race that walks in Middle-earth is as the Shire-folk. As children age, so do peoples. Evil creeps into hearts, and the knowledge and will of wrong-doing, whether for profit or the pleasure of misery."

Frodo felt compelled to defend the Shire. "Ignorance of evil is a good thing, I would think."

"It is, Frodo, it is. I do not speak ill of the Shire. But like children who fear the monster in the corner and lack the experience to know what they fear, they hide beneath the bedclothes. They do not speak of it, and hush any who try, for fear of inviting it in. Such are the innocents of the world. But those who have lived longer know that not speaking of evil does not negate its existence, indeed only gives it more power. That many hands joined are stronger than one alone."

Frodo was silent a moment, thinking through what the wizard had said. "It is not only that I have changed, then. You are saying I return to a land that will not understand my troubles, or me any more than a child understands why his parent weeps. It is a hard fate. Did Bilbo face this when he returned from the Lonely Mountain?"

"Bilbo was very alone for much of his life. There were—are compensations, however. Wisdom, compassion, love of this Middle Earth and its creatures—all those were his comforts. And you, Frodo."

Love and longing for the old hobbit welled up in Frodo. "I miss him terribly, Gandalf. I started these writings thinking of him, but now it seems to be going wrong. Sam does not understand."

"Memories cannot be buried or willingly forgotten. Such things tend to fester and worry at the mind. If writing comforts you, then write! I will not say there will not be pain, but I believe you have courage enough to face it. And when it passes, you may find patterns and meaning where you did not before. That is the beginning of true wisdom."

Frodo stood up, and paced back and forth before Gandalf's bench. "I feel in my heart that you are right. But I am not sure I can finish what I have begun."

"Frodo, do not drive yourself. That is what worries Sam and your friends. And do not think that only in Bilbo can you confide."

Frodo bowed his head. "You are right, Gandalf. My mind is much eased." _I will finish this._ The thought brought a measured relief, as when a dreaded event comes at last to the horizon. With the resolve fresh in his mind, he was able to put off his dark mood.

"Gandalf, tell me of this sign."

The next day, Sam came to Frodo in the courtyard. Frodo was paging idly through his Blue Book, hands caressing the yellowed leaves.

"There's something else I've been meaning to say, if I have your leave," Sam said. "I don't pretend to understand the ways of educated folk like you and Mr. Bilbo. But I know this: I've done wrong by acting as if I don't see why you need to write about these things. Horrible times we've gone through, Mr. Frodo. Horrible. I'd like to forget 'em, and maybe that's easier for a simple hobbit like me. But for you, well, you're different. I want you to do whatever will help you get better, whether it's write, sing or compose Elvish love-poems!"

Frodo looked into his eyes intently. Sam looked back, with such warmth and affection, that Frodo relaxed finally and sighed. "Sam, how could I have expected you to understand when I do not understand it myself? I only know that I cannot simply forget and go on. I must come to terms with it in some meaningful way. I do not know what that way is. Perhaps it is through this," he stroked the cover of the book gently. "Or perhaps something else."

Sam hesitated, obviously grappling with some thought he was reluctant to voice. "What do you mean by 'it', Mr. Frodo?"

"Mordor. And— and what happened—" Frodo swallowed hard. "At the last."

Sam nodded shortly. "Even Gollum had his part to play, you told me. You had your part. Did you ever think, Mr. Frodo, that maybe you did your bit just perfect? Not too little and not too much, but just right, as we say."

"I don't know, Sam." Frodo had to drop his eyes from the compassion in Sam's gaze.

Sam pressed him no further. "Well, Mr. Frodo, it's beyond me, I'll tell you straight. But then, I'm just a little hobbit, and the Great Ones' plans would be over my head anyhow. You'll need to figure it out for both of us."

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. "I can try." He moved into the house, leaving Sam sitting alone for a moment.

Sam looked up at the bright stars. "He's blaming himself for what happened at those Cracks of Doom, is as plain as the nose on my face. But what's to be done about it?" There was no answer from the stars, and Sam got up slowly, his face troubled, and went inside. The next day, Frodo sat down before his desk filled with determination.

**The Plains of Gorgoroth**

Step by step, Sam and I made our way across that cursed land. My course was set and all that remained was to coax the last fragments of endurance from my failing self. The Ring hung around my neck, heavy as a millstone, dragging my gaze ever earthward, to the sharp rocks and grey ashes. Its presence in my mind never wholly left me, and I struggled to keep my gaze and mind from its bright depths.

_Bilbo. "Lad, where are you going? Why did you take my Ring from me? Do you not love me, Frodo lad?"_

I set my teeth and trudged on. The hateful words continued. _"If you destroy the Ring, I will die, Frodo. I will die! How can you murder me?"_

Angrily, I replied: "That the Ring's workings will pass away is not my burden! I was given to bear the Ring itself. I will not take on the burden of the evil it has wrought as well!"

Sam looked at me anxiously. "Did you say something, Mr. Frodo? I thought I heard you speak."

I shook my head tiredly, cursing myself for arguing with a shade. _It is of no use. Ignore. Endure. Walk._

At the end of the day, I threw myself down and Sam gave me a mouthful of water. His last, but I did not have the strength to refuse him. I closed my eyes but not to sleep.

_Two follow: one from love and hopelessness, one from desire and fear. Two you have mastered, but more followers wait._

I have not and will not. Gollum follows because he is enslaved, Sam because of love. I have done nothing.

_You haven't? Sam goes to certain death, merely for love of you? Or does he go because you require it, have impressed your need upon his so-suggestible mind? You need him to catch you when you falter. And falter you will._

I was taken aback, and searched my memory for things I might have said or done to influence Sam in that way. _Lies. I have not!_ There was silence within my mind then, and finally I slept.

The next day, I began the struggle anew. _Bilbo. "Don't do it, lad!" _

_Merry, blood streaming from horrible wounds. "Save me, Frodo. Only you can save me."_

_Pippin. "I don't want to die. I want to go back to the Shire! Oh, Frodo, can we not go back to the Shire?"_

_And Sam. He spoke no word, but staggered and fell, his dear face marked with privation and thirst. He breathed his last, reaching out to me one final time. _

Desperately, I pushed them away. I stumbled upon a stone, and focused fiercely on the pain. One step. I began counting them, slowly, painfully, forcing my mind onto the sorrows of my abused body. This is what I whispered to myself:

I thirst. One step.

I cannot breathe. Two.

I am weary. Three.

The whip marks chafe. Four steps.

My side is cold. Five steps.

My neck aches. Six.

The Ring burns me. Seven.

Each recitation brought me closer to the Mountain. I stumbled blindly along, guided by Sam, walking next to me. I could not speak to him, or comfort him. There was no comfort I could offer. I concentrated on my miseries. I reaffirmed this mortal shell of Frodo Baggins, Drogo's son, and Bilbo's heir. Otherwise, I could not bear it.

_One. I thirst._ My need clawed at my throat and eyes. I struggled to balance my bodies' demands for air in the foul-smelling vapors of Mordor and my thirst. I could not gasp open-mouthed. If I did, my throat would dry completely and I would be unable to speak or swallow. My thirst was painful, and yet, reassuring. It was merely a straightforward need of my body. Deny anyone water and they will thirst.

_Two. I cannot breathe_. The air was filled with noxious fumes. I hacked and coughed as if with illness. My chest burned with air hunger, and I took deep slow breaths, but it gave me little relief. I unconsciously speeded my breathing until the hateful plain before me wavered in my sight. Each time I returned to this thought, I slowed my breathing a bit.

_Three. I am weary._ My muscles trembled with fatigue. I shuffled forward, sometimes unable to lift my feet to clear the ground. I stumbled, and my toes scraped painfully. My entire body was heavy and clumsy. Yet, if I stopped, and threw myself down to rest, I would have felt no relief. I would simply be unable to rise again.

_Four. The whip marks chafe._ The marks stretched across my back and legs. I never thought to bear these cuts. Not honorable warrior wounds, but the sign of the convict, the ignoble. When still, they disturbed me little, but in motion, my rags rubbed against them. A small discomfort that nonetheless preyed on me. As I walked the weals pulled, and sometimes I fancied those scored lines across my flesh deepening and pulling apart with each tug.

_Five. My side is cold._ Shivers racked my left shoulder and arm, expending the little strength I had left. The chill enveloping my left side was driven by the malice that dealt me the wound. I could feel it, though its attention was elsewhere at the moment. _He_ was as cold as Caradhras and frighteningly empty. Empty save for desire.

_Six. My neck aches._ The chain carrying my Burden cut into my neck. I had given up trying to shift the chain out of the wound. I dared not bring my hands that close to the object I bore. The Spider-sting throbbed separately. The plains around me were so distant and unreal, that I wondered if I were not still under the influence of her poison. Mayhap I lay trussed in her webbing, dreaming that I walked to Orodruin to destroy the Ring of Power. If so, would the poison keep me unaware of it until the end? _She_ would drain my blood and I would fade believing I struggled to complete my charge. There was cold comfort in this thought. Worse was imagining a sudden awakening from the dream, seeing _Her_ above me, fangs ready, the horrid eyes bright with hunger and lust.

_Seven. The Ring burns me._ It was the only bright thing left in my vision, bright as the Sun, and as merciless. Sometimes the light from it flared sharply, and heat seemed to crisp my skin. When I looked at my hands and body, I saw no signs of the agony within. I could not cry out for it would terrify and grieve Sam. It whispered to me of hatred, fear, and suspicion.

_Take me. Save Sam. Kill the orcs. Kill them all. Use me. Sam will take me soon. You must take me. You will. Kill them all. You will soon._

Sometimes unspeakable images accompanied the words. Broken victims, flaming houses, and tortured screams of agony. It corrupted everyone I cared about, turned them to mere meat for the Shadow. Sometimes I saw myself triumph, and those I loved knelt laughing and glad, before me, and the horrors I had seen were rectified. Sometimes the torturer's face was my own, and I reveled in it, fey and fell. At one time, I easily rejected the former vision as grandiose and the latter as impossible. But that confidence was gone, and all I could do was endure.

Where was the source of these evils? I knew. The source was myself, my own dark thoughts and resentments, brought to life by the Ring in my visions. Every moment of anger or envy, no matter how minor. The Ring did not create them. It did not have to. My soul already contained weaknesses for it to exploit.

Repeatedly the Ring showed me its final victory. It was inevitable, so why continue the struggle? I spoke the words to claim it; I felt the delicious release from pain with the final surrender; at last, peace came to me. This vision was increasingly difficult to deny. I trembled in the revulsion and disgust an animal must feel, faced with gnawing off the limb caught in the trap.

How could I continue to deny it? My strength was beginning to ebb and I was afraid. I was afraid. I pushed away the fear, with a slow breath returned to my counted sorrows, and another seven steps closer to the end.

One: I thirst.

Two: I cannot breathe.

Three: I am weary.

Four: the whip marks chafe.

Five: my side is cold.

Six: my neck aches.

Seven: the Ring burns.

For a long while this sustained me, and enabled me to continue. But some time later, I became aware that I was no longer counting; instead had fallen into a reverie of Ring-watching. It filled my vision, hanging just before me, a great golden wheel, leaching color from the rest of the world.

It was dangerous to allow my attention to fix on it. I forced my mind back to the hurts of my body, and thought: _Ash._

The word tolled in my mind, and I stumbled in horror, even as the next words came unwillingly: _Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga. Seven steps closer._

Ash.

Dum.

Til.

Gan.

Kal.

Narn.

Naga.

The Ring seemed to leap closer, filling my vision. I knew the words that had come to my mind, felt them intimately.

_I was counting in Black Speech_.

I tried, without success, to thrust this knowledge away. Everything faded, until it seemed I walked in a grey fog shot with red fire. The Ring before me, and Black Speech in my ears, the words ringing like great joyous bells: _Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga!_ _Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga!_

I fell, and the blow helped return me to myself. How thin the thread had become! Sam helped me up and we went on. I searched within my mind for something else to fix my attention upon. Simple and rhythmic to counteract that cursed counting. _Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga! _

A memory flashed into my head: of sitting with Bilbo, listening to him read aloud.

"_You'll like this, my boy. Let me read you the bits I've translated. All about doomed love and heroic quests and so forth. Of course, it would not hurt you to learn the Elvish."_

My cracked lips parted, and whispered a part of that long-ago lesson.

He gazed, and as he gazed her hair

within its cloudy web did snare

the silver moonbeams sifting white

between the leaves and glinting bright

the tremulous starlight of the skies

was caught and mirrored in her eyes.

A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien!

More fair than any child of men!

The fog faded before the image of cozy Bag End, and Bilbo, beloved Bilbo. Sacrifice and love, loss and grief—he understood what I was doing, would never speak against it. The Ring receded before the memories and soft verses. Gladdened, eager, I searched my memory for more:

drowned in an overwhelming grief

for parting after meeting brief;

a shadow and a fragrance fair

lingered, and waned, and was not there.

Forsaken, barren, bare as stone,

the daylight found him cold, alone.

I could have wept anew for Beren, had my body held moisture. I stumbled into Sam, and he steadied me. I looked up and the Mountain loomed over me. So close… I turned my mind resolutely back to the bits of poetry I had unearthed. _ A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien! More fair than any child of men!_ The Ring was as cold as stone against my chest. My lips faltered, and a later stanza leapt to mind.

Who is the king of earthly kings,

the greatest giver of gold and rings?

Who is the master of the wide earth?

Who despoiled the Gods of their mirth?

_No, no, no! _But the words rolled on, unheeding, as certain of this victory, as in all.

Death to light, to law, to love!

Cursed be moon and stars above!

May all in hatred be begun,

and all in evil ended be,

in the moaning of the endless Sea!

Had Bilbo even translated this, or did the evil words come to me unbidden? The verses sapped my strength, drained the brief glimpse of hope from me. I fell and could not rise. I crawled, and struggled to call back the light. _He gazed and as he gazed…_ The words were gone. I could not remember them. I tried to remember, to see Bilbo as he read and could not. All was lost. I had nothing to hold between the fire and myself, and the fire consumed me. _He gazed…_

_He gazed upon a wheel of fire,_

_bright beauty made of peril dire,_

_trapped and bound, errand forgot_

_which fulfillment he'd long sought._

_Coldly turned from song and light,_

_to darkness, shadow, and endless night._

-

-

-TBC

-

-Author's note: this rough translation of _The Lay of Leithian (Lúthien), _was apparently recovered and recorded by J.R.R. Tolkien in _The History of Middle-earth, vol. 3._ Frodo does not remember it correctly, but the full version can be found in the above text.


	11. On Mount Doom

**Chapter 11: On Mount Doom**

_The world changed, and a single moment of time was filled with an hour of thought. –The Two Towers_

Frodo was tired and distracted over the next few days, taking spare moments to write until he felt he had captured the nightmarish trek across the Plains sufficiently well. When finished, he rewarded himself with a generous lunch followed by a nap.

When he awoke, he lay quietly for some minutes, staring up at the patterns the late afternoon sunlight made on the ceiling as it crept through the wooden shutters. _There is really only one thing left to write of. While not the most horrifying to me, it remains the most inexplicable. _He turned over, and saw Merry sitting next to the fire, which had burned low.

"Hullo, Merry. Are you the minder today?" he asked.

Merry looked startled. "Have we been as bad as all that?"

Frodo sat up and pushed the bedclothes back. "Perhaps not, but I am beginning to wonder. It can't be merely the time spent writing that concerns you."

Merry shrugged noncommittally.

"_Is _it the writing? Why? Bilbo always said the natural outgrowth of reading was a desire to write. Preferably poetry. He never understood that I had an ear of tin for poetry."

Merry leaned his chin upon his raised knee. "It is not the writing. We understand that. Pippin even teased you about it."

Frodo slid his braces back up over his shoulders, and crossed to where Merry sat. "Then what could it be, dear cousin?"

Merry hesitated, poking idly at the smoldering log until it split in a shower of sparks. "You'll put that out, Merry," Frodo said, and took the poker from him. He deftly added a smaller log to the coals, opened the draft and then turned to his cousin expectantly.

Merry looked away. "We have wondered if you write about these things because you feel you cannot speak to us about them," he said.

Frodo's reply rose ready to his lips, 'I did not think you wished me to!' but he did not say it. That would be unfair, subscribing feelings to them that merely reflected his own discomfort. "You surely are not telling me that Pippin has complained of this," he said instead, striving for a light tone.

Merry's lips twitched in a half-smile. "Why? Do you imagine that we sit about and constantly discuss you?"

Frodo joined in the teasing banter. "I cannot imagine the boredom that would drive you to that."

Merry's smile faded, and he looked back into the fire. "We have tried not to intrude, Frodo. But it obvious to those who know you as well as we three do, that these Notes, as you call them, have brought you some measure of peace. But we—I," he continued, "I wonder if I have somehow led you to believe that I did not want to listen to you talk, when you are troubled, and you seem far away. I did not go to Mordor, and I did not share in that horror. I would not fail you again if you need a sympathetic ear."

He sat upright suddenly, and took Frodo's hand. "Frodo, you do know that you can speak to me about anything that is troubling you, don't you?" His eyes searched Frodo's. Frodo nodded and Merry's grip relaxed somewhat. "And do not quote that old saw, less said, sooner mended, to me. We have all of us come too far for that."

Now it was Frodo's turn to stare into the fire, disquieted by Merry's words. Such honesty deserved nothing less in return. "You have not failed me, Merry, and I have never doubted that I could tell you anything. But it is far easier to scribble my thoughts in a book than to speak of them to you or Sam or Pippin."

"But why?"

Frodo took a long breath and let it out slowly, steeling himself. "I could not bear the shame of it."

"The shame?" Merry repeated. "The shame of it? Your shame?"

Frodo nodded reluctantly. Next, Merry would ask what had he to be ashamed of, and he would answer. How he dreaded the changes in Merry that were sure to follow! Disbelief and frank incomprehension, followed by scorn or anger. But Merry said nothing, sat silently with his eyes closed. Minutes ticked by until Merry finally shook his head and sighed. "What fools we are, Frodo, what fools."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Here is Sam, thinking he has failed by not looking after you properly. Pip feels responsible for… looking in the palantir for one, and dropping the stone down the well in Moria. And I—there are things I do not wish to speak of or remember. And we do not share our feelings because hobbits do not, do they? We bear it alone, never knowing our fellows are thinking, feeling the same."

Frodo was surprised at Merry's words. "Merry, you destroyed the Witch King. You have nothing to reproach yourself for."

Merry's mouth twisted. "Boromir's death is on my head." He took in Frodo's astonished expression, and said sharply, "Yes, it is, Frodo. I ran heedlessly away from the Fellowship on Amon Hen, and ignored Aragorn's call. I was arrogantly sure that I could find you before anyone, and Pippin followed me. Where did I lead him? Directly into the hands of orcs. We ran into a copse and there they were."

Frodo touched his arm. "But it was not intentional, Merry."

"That does not change the fact of Boromir's death, and our capture."

"It must have been terrible."

The firelight flickered in Merry's eyes, turning their warm brown color into a glittering black. "Not least is that I discovered parts of myself that were unknown to me. I guess captivity will do that. I had never really hated anyone before those orcs, Frodo. I did not truly understand the word. But I do now."

Frodo shivered, unwelcome memories of the Tower of Cirith Ungol filling his mind. "I know."

Merry's face was as grim as his words. "Pippin and I were kept apart, the better to break our spirits. We were not to be harmed according to the leader, but that did not stop my guards from discussing what might await us in Isenguard. I remember listening with a feeling of disbelief. Surely, they could not be talking about torturing me, could they? Breaking bones, cutting off fingers. This was all a dream and I was bound to wake up. But I didn't. I was terrified of them, and I hated them for proving my cowardice. In the night, one threw me some bread and meat, and when I tried to pick up the bread, he stepped on my wrist."

Merry imitated the orc's slurring speech. "'What's the rat got to say for its bread?' I couldn't think, was almost paralyzed by fear. Finally, I said, 'Thank you?' And he roared with laughter, and stepped off my wrist. I burned with degradation, but still I felt a spark of gratitude that he had let me off that easily. I wanted to laugh with him, and I realized then what I was in danger of becoming. And so quickly! So much for all my talk of bravery. In the test, I was as rank a coward as Lotho. For that I despised myself, but I detested them. When I saw them dying at the hands of the Riders—I was glad.

"You speak of shame, Frodo, as I have no conception of it." He looked at Frodo squarely. "Do you despise me?"

"No! Not at all, Merry. I have far more understanding than you might imagine—with orcs. None of us were prepared for what we faced on this journey, not I, not you or Pippin or Sam. Do not blame yourself or feel shame because of what happened in your captivity. The burden of that evil belongs with the orcs and Sauruman, not with their innocent victims." Merry's eyes glistened in the firelight, and a single tear dripped from one corner.

"Merry," Frodo drew him close, and dropped a kiss atop his hair. Merry shuddered, and hot tears tracked down his face. Frodo felt transported back in memory, as if Merry were aged four or five again, and had come running to him over a broken toy or slighting word.

"There now, it's all right," Frodo said softly, and then wished he could call the words back. Would it be all right? But, yes, for Merry it would be. He wasn't sure where this knowledge came from, but he knew that Merry would emerge from this stronger than before, but with a bone-deep compassion and wisdom that would mark all his long days. _Meriadoc the Magnificent. You will far surpass Saradoc…and me. _The thought brought no sorrow, but a sense of wistful pride. How far they all had come, Sam, Merry, Pippin. They, not he, would change the Shire, for the better.

Merry straightened and wiped his eyes. "How did this happen? I intended to speak to you about your troubles, not burden you with mine."

Now it was Frodo's turn to look away. He was the elder cousin, and once he'd thought the wiser. How could he admit to what he had done? Merry's confession was light, trivial compared to the consequences of Frodo's failure.

"Frodo?"

Frodo wondered if he could say it. But if he could not, how could he write it? He licked his lips uneasily while Merry waited silently.

"At the Sammath Naur, I—" His voice failed. He swallowed hard, and tried again.

"At the Cracks of Doom—I claimed the Ring, Merry." Merry's expression did not change. Frodo spoke faster, hurrying the words. "I put it on, said I would not destroy it. I would have destroyed us all."

Merry still was not regarding him with shock, horror or disgust, and Frodo wondered if the younger hobbit fully understood what he was telling him. "I couldn't have stood against Sauron. He would have taken it from me. I would have put all of Middle Earth under his sway." Just speaking the words aloud branded them on his soul until he wanted to cower on the hearth, crying mindlessly for surcease. _When will I have peace? When?_

Merry curved one hand under his chin, and his touch was warm and caring. "Did you, truly?"

"Yes."

Merry frowned slightly. "You misunderstand me. Did you, Frodo Baggins, claim the Ring?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"The Frodo I remember from my childhood? Who taught me to swim in the Brandywine? Who badgered Bilbo into teaching Sam to read and write? Who, when faced with an impossible fate, sold all his possessions, and left his home in the face of certain death? That Frodo claimed the Ring, you say."

Frodo floundered, unsure. "Those things were not in my mind at the time."

"Were you even yourself at the time? That is what I wonder, Frodo. Sauron desired domination over all, when he crafted the One. What did his tool do to you, there at the Cracks of Doom?"

Frodo searched his memory. He remembered standing at the precipice. He remembered speaking the words. Was there an element of unreality in the memory? _But that is the easy way out_. _Merry is offering you a gift, a release because he loves you. You dare not take it._

"I will not deny my actions," he said at last.

Merry looked stubborn. "Does not the burden of that evil belong with Sauron and the Ring, and not their innocent victim?"

_Innocence?_ He, of all hobbits could no longer truly claim innocence. Frodo bowed his head, breaking Merry's gaze. "I do not know," he said.

Merry put an arm around his shoulders comfortingly, and Frodo sighed, feeling some of his tension release. "Merry," he murmured, "thank you."

For the first time, he could think of Mount Doom without an internal wince, flinching away from the shame and dishonor. What's done is done, as Sam liked to say. Now he must find some way to live with it, and the next step would be writing of it.

**Orodruin**

At last, I came to it. I stood on the brink of a fiery chasm and stared into the depths. The heat baked my face and eyes. One more step, one tiny step and I would plunge into the fire. The Ring and I would die together. There was a rightness to that, a sureness that comforted me. It would not hurt much, dying, I thought with grim humor. How many times on this journey had I confronted my death? Too many, to be sure. Last time would pay for all. This did not seem as terrifying as being tortured to death in Barad-dur for the Dark One's amusement. It would be quickly over, another advantage. The briefest instant of agony and then no more. I drew the Ring's chain out, and clasped it in my hand. Before we died, I wished to see it one last time.

The smooth flawless gold reflected the fires in the depths so well, that I winced expecting it to burn my fingers. But its cold surface was unchanged, as ever.

Could I see myself in its mirror-like sheen? I brought the Ring up to my face, holding it between my index finger and thumb. Yes, I was there, surrounded by fire, my dark hair hanging in grimy strands, and soot painting my cheeks. The face was haggard but determination burned in the blue eyes, and the mouth was set firmly. It was the face of a hobbit, who against all sense and reason, had accomplished his task. The Ringbearer had brought the Ring to Mordor.

Elrond spoke, his voice a mere whisper in my ears. "_This is my last word. The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, or to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need."_

The Ringbearer had succeeded in all particulars of Elrond's charge. But what of his own personal resolution?

"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way."

I had done more than take it, more than refrain from casting it aside—as if I could have. I had brought the Ring to Mount Doom. At this thought, lightness filled me, a relief so sweet and intoxicating I felt as if I could float down to the flames. Blessed, beautiful ending! I gripped the Ring tightly, exultantly.

_Then you have completed your oath?_

_Not until the Ring goes into the Fire._

_Truly?_

I stared at the circle of fire and gold in my hand. Something was wrong. I could not take my eyes away. I was not taking that final step. As if from far away, an image came to me. That of the small figure of the Ringbearer settling the Ring upon his finger. _This is when I fall to it, here at the very last_. I recognized the horrible familiarity of the moment. Had not the Ring shown me this many times before? And I had denied it. I tried to bestir my will but my strength was gone. I could no longer see a face reflected within the gold, only fire. The Ring had spoken nothing but the truth to me, and I was lost, staring into its flames, more precious and more beautiful than anything in Middle-earth, and weeping from dry eyes.

A voice behind me cried, "Master!" and I spoke, as the tip of my finger slipped toward the bright band.

"I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

I set it upon my finger, and exquisite relief filled me. Nay, joy. The pain disappeared, and I felt stronger and more alive than I ever had. What had I feared? The loss of myself? What a foolish fear, for I was still Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, and Bilbo's heir. But I was so much more!

It was as if I were newly awakened after a lifetime of being asleep. Had I shrunk within Bilbo's shadow, riddler of dragons, burglar extraordinaire? I could meet a dragon face to face, and not feel overwhelmed! Orcs would run from me like frightened children in the night. The Shire, and Gondor and all the realms of Middle Earth would blossom in a renewed age of blessedness.

Had I been worn, tired, forgetful? All that was gone. I remembered now_ The Lay of Lúthien,_ and Bilbo's face. All the verses sang in my head, even those which Bilbo had never translated and I had not learned. All the songs of Middle Earth, through all the Ages were there, and I knew them.

But those things were secondary, like sweet music playing in the background of a feast. For as I stood upon the Sammath Naur, I looked east and perceived Him.

He rose like a vast black shadow before my sight, grim and bitter. It seemed we two stood alone, myself straddling Orodruin, and He atop his deadly tower. I looked at Him, and knew Him, even as I knew the poetry of Arda. I saw the wrath and fear of his heart, and the Ages of pride and wickedness behind Him. I might have quailed then, cowered as He expected, but I was enchanted with the dark history that filled my mind.

I felt his summons go out to the Nazgûl, tense and desperate. I braced myself to face again the Witch King with my new power, but felt only absence. The Witch King was gone where even _He_ could not call him back. Fierce joy lit my heart; even as He bent the force of his will upon the Mountain.

_Bring the Ring to Me!_

The words shook me, but I did not fall, or answer to his demand. Instead, I addressed him. "I know your name, Thû." The words tumbled freely, gloriously from my lips, and a tremble shook Barad-dur.

"Men named you Thû, and as a god

in after days beneath your rod

bewildered bowed to you and made

your ghastly temples in the shade

"Necromancy holds your hosts

of phantoms and of wandering ghosts.

Thû fouls what once was clean,

Makes darkness where the light has been."

_He_ was filled with rage and bafflement, underlain with anxiety. He considered me silently for a time, and subtle triumph infused my heart. Then He spoke again, rhythmically, almost crooning the words, and their power was fearsome, rocking me backward where I stood.

"Witless halfling, wizard's friend,

a liar like all elves and men!

Welcome, welcome to my hall!

I have a use for every thrall.

What folly fresh is in your mind?

Straying hence, bare and blind?

"For here of need thou shalt remain

unhappy mortal, in fear and pain--

in pain, the fitting doom for all,

rebel, thief, and upstart thrall."

My own so-clever verses twisted and turned against me, slicing like a whiplash of agony through my mind. I took a step back, and then felt the approach of Nazgûl. I opened my mouth to order them away, disquiet creeping over me. Thû demanded all my attention. But before I could say a word, something struck me hard and drove me to my knees. Suddenly, I no longer towered above Orodruin, but had fallen into my hobbit's body in the Sammath Naur, struggling with Gollum, who bit and snapped in frenzy.

When he ripped the Ring from me, the pain in my hand was nothing compared to its loss. I was suddenly diminished, lessened into a mindless creature shrieking with anguish. I had scarcely comprehended the horrid Ring-less fate that lay before me, when my mind blossomed anew into agony. The Ring had gone into the Fire. I clutched my head and moaned, even as that one in Barad-dur must, and the Nazgûl wailed, as Gollum burned. The Ring passed away, and as it did, it tore me into pieces, and then ripped those away to burn to ashes.

The Nazgûl died first, those who had cheated mortality for so long. Barad-dur collapsed, its cruel pits exposed to the Sun's bright gaze. And Thû fell, a fall that echoed across the long Ages of the World. And I, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, was left completely alone, fallen on my knees beside the brink, dreaming into the depths.

"On Mount Doom, doom shall fall." And so it had. Sam struggled to me, my fierce, loyal Sam, and held me. For his sake, I came away from the Fire that called. We found a bare outcropping of rock and I spoke to him of what comfort I could, watching the land itself tear itself apart in convulsions. The heat was overwhelming, but I no longer feared it. Too much. I had borne, done too much, and this abused body was at last sinking into death. Not as swiftly as the Nazgûl or the Enemy, but just as surely. It was not the end I had foreseen, but still! Blessed ending!

_Let it come, at last, _I thought to myself, not wishing to pain Sam further. _I shall pass gladly beyond the uttermost circles of Arda and receive the One's Gift. _ In the last moments before the dark closed my eyes, a gentle singing filled my soul. _The Gift of the One_….something inside murmured, in a voice like wind over water, _brings peace, Frodo…peace_.

-

-

-TBC

-Author's note: Frodo paraphrases _The Lay of Leithian (Lúthien)._ 'The Gift of the One' to mortals is death.


	12. Farewell to the White City

**Chapter 12: Farewell to the White City**

_His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom. -Aragorn, The Return of the King_

Queen Arwen looked kindly upon Frodo, and lifted a white gem from around her neck and placed it around his. "But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven! When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid."

Frodo laid his hand over the white gem as it hung upon his breast. "You have my thanks, Queen Evenstar. He bowed, and then withdrew, his brow creased in thought. When he came from the fountain into the great Hall, Gandalf was waiting, looking out one of the windows of that high place.

He gave Frodo a quick glance. "The gift is well-given, I see."

"Yes," Frodo replied. He held up the stone and looked at it curiously. "What are its properties?"

"You will discover yourself in time, I do not doubt. I trust you will not forget the qualities most desired by the elves and so part of all their works: understanding and preserving that which is."

Frodo nodded and joined Gandalf at the window. It was amazingly large, more than ten feet high and half again as wide, and set with many panes of glass; rich and marvelous it still seemed to him. Four more like it marched down the length of the Hall, matched by windows on the other side.

"The Queen spoke of Bilbo," he said. The diffident tone of his voice could not conceal the longing underlying the words. "Of the last journey that he would undertake."

"That decision lies before you, as well, Frodo."

"Is my future as bleak as that?" Frodo asked softly.

Gandalf raised his eyebrows, and looked at Frodo sternly. "Frodo, my dear and best-beloved hobbit, your future is your own. If I have learned anything, it is that to see what a hobbit may or may not do, or endure or overcome... Well, it cannot be seen, not by me or by any of the Wise. Your deeds have given you the reward of a choice, such as has not been offered to any other mortal since time out of mind. And the reward of companions on that last journey, if undertaken."

"I had only thought of staying in the Shire. Seeing Bilbo once again. I long for my homeland, Gandalf. And yet… " Frodo paused, tracing one of the panes of glass absently with one finger. "And yet, I do wish to go West with Bilbo. What would your counsel be, Gandalf? Grant me your advice, old friend!"

The wizard's eyes twinkled, as he looked at Frodo with deep affection. "You have no need of my counsel, Frodo. You see clearly and wisely, and that gift will only increase in the days to come. Trust in your heart and your feelings, my friend. They will not lead you astray." He touched Frodo's shoulder gently. "I am proud to be your friend, Frodo. Do not mis-understand yourself or your achievements. This reward is well deserved. The Lords of Valinor have judged it so."

**18 July 1419 (S.R.)**

I return to these notes on the eve of my departure from the White City of Gondor. This Blue Book goes with me, on this journey home and on that last journey that may lie after. Contained in its pages is much of horror. But its covers are beautiful, fair, and marked with the sigil of a City I shall always remember in love and friendship. And so, by honor and love the horror is contained, and even overturned. I would cherish it for that reason alone, even if it had taught me nothing else.

I have recorded a great deal of my experiences under the Shadow, including notes and annotations from the Archive of Minas Tirith, and a record of the first days of the rule of King Elessar. I have faced that which I feared I could not, and taken full account of the various hurts and indignities inflicted on my body and mind.

But have I achieved my original goal, that of understanding my failure? I look back over the pages of information herein, and I see I have not. I can trace the long slow decline of my will, from the Council to Orodruin. But I cannot conclusively identify the point at which that decline's outcome could have been altered.

There are possibilities, to be sure, and the reader can probably identify some of those possibilities as easily as I can. If Gandalf had not fallen. If Boromir had not been taken by Ring-lust. If Gollum had repented. If I had not run heedlessly into the snare of Cirith Ungol.

If I might have resisted long enough for one more step…but that is the final mystery, that I did not, and that Middle-earth, and I, still survived…to which all the other 'what ifs' lead.

The reader will forgive me for saying that I might as well wish that I had not been born! Or that Bilbo had not, or that Gollum had not. Many of these events occurred with little assistance from me, yet affected me profoundly. And each single event does not seem weighty enough to inevitably carry the outcome. As silk threads in a tapestry become indistinguishable when woven together so did the events of the War of the Ring combine to lead to its destruction.

I would only wish, if wishing were of any use that I had not fallen to the Ring as I did. I have felt the shame of it every day since. I remember those last few minutes; but I cannot pierce their mystery. I did what I did, and do not excuse myself for it.

As for why? That may be forever unanswerable. As mortals gifted with free will, we imagine that we act from definable reasons, whether it is honor, necessity, or overpowering emotion. But sometimes this delusion fails and we realize that we have acted, for reasons that are not only unknown but also perhaps even unknowable. That I should have come so far to fail so decidedly, one step away from success, is nearly unbearable. But the enormous tapestry of Middle-earth mocks my small concerns. The Ring was destroyed despite my actions. I am only one little hobbit, and flawed. I must bear the burden of that knowledge, but I can hope that it will not be too heavy.

When I return to the Shire, that wondrously innocent land, I will walk in the greenways and along the little rivers. I will listen to the wind's tidings as it sings in the trees along the Water, and look for Entwives. Perhaps I will venture into the Old Forest, before it begins to fade. I will not be respectable, for I will watch for Elves and dwarves and even entertain them. Sam will be with me, and we shall spoil our nieces, nephews, and young cousins. We will tell stories to the children at festivals, and be profligate with gifts, laughter, and song. I will pass along a little of what I have learned with such pain.

Bilbo will pass over into the West, and I believe I may follow him, as I did once before. I will hear the sound of the Sea, the sound that lives in my soul. But first, I will linger yet awhile in this beautiful Middle-earth, and savor the precious youth of my countrymen. Only then would I go, and perhaps Sam with me, and over Sea my burdens will be set down at last.

_The End_

_Frodo Baggins_


End file.
